The Passing Wind
by TheSilentReader
Summary: Fukuzawa Yumi's most celebrated painting was stolen. This would make her go out from her personal seclusion and meet old friends, old lovers, and new adversaries.
1. Chapter 1

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

CHAPTER 1: The Painter

* * *

That was the last stroke that she could muster for now. _For the day_. Not that she wanted to end by leaving all her work, and therefore sleep, but that was the last straw. _For the day._

She was fascinated by the stupid realization (no, recurring realizations) that inspiration is one fickle lover—it came in style and in haste, blowing all Yumi's faculties away; somehow the desire to get Yumi her hands into her, through her, was increasing beyond tangible bounds, and her head started to drown into her. Then, she'd start seducing Yumi.

Then, Yumi would paint.

The preparation for the canvas was almost as long and as tedious as the act of painting itself, but that period seemed not to last long; all she cared about was the sudden inspiration and the mission to put it into canvas without neglecting all the details that repeatedly running through her head. In haste, she would prepare. In haste, she would pick up brushes that had been with her for almost all her career-life, and some of them were acquired before the fame, the education, the hobby, and even the time that she used to consider painting a mere job to bury oneself worse than a city rat.

Yet she was beyond the threshold of poverty, mentally speaking, even with the money that has been pouring down in her account due to her works two years ago.

And to paint was to paint with emotion and peace of mind. _How the fuck am I going to do that?_

_You fickle bitch._ She spat as her muse went away in torrents, leaving her in the midst of destruction. Now, she had nothing to draw. Even with all her materials lying around.

She glanced at her studio, and she sensed nothing of her muse. Inspiration was down into the drain, leaving her with wet paint, half-filled canvas and a fucked-up mind. It was so frustrating to leave a job not finished, and she had been frustrated for two years. Not that she actually neglected her job, but somehow, nothing seemed to come to mind.

No, she stood corrected by her inner consciousness. _You tried to paint for two years. But everything was unfinished. The right sentence was: _Inspiration came and went before you could finish your painting.

(And such a waste of money.)

Sure, she had art supplies that would make any neophyte artist throw herself in the fits of hightened lust to possessthem all, but that does not mean that the materials itself count for producing _her._ That's not entirely about that. Well then, after you have acquired it, what are you going to do about it?

A flashback came to her, back when she had vent her frustration to an unknowing Sei-sama, who acted as if she was not noticing anything. After all, the senior was her only intermediate to what the laymen termed 'art world'. That kind sure existed before, but it was not as prominent as it once was. Sei was the only person who she allowed to see her in such _uninspired _state, and she would not have others to see her that way. Other artists may wish that they should have the recognition that Yumi was unmindful of, but say, _who would want to be like me, a painter without anything to paint?_

(Stupid artist's block.)

Sei once mentioned unguardedly, that Yumi should have stuck with the traditional Japanese painting and not revolutionize for oil two years ago. Two years too late. She was stuck with the idea of producing something out of oil that the comment sank into her too lately. _NO, _she corrected herself once again. This is not because of the medium.

She could not just throw paint all over her canvas, ang give it a name. It's a petty excuse for abstract and modern art, not that she had any grudge for the movements.

That last stroke was enough. Thank you, Maria-sama, for the inevitable and natural thing called _decay_. With that, she had the job of restoring old paintings, which required oil and acrylic as media. The last item that she needed to work with is due within two weeks, therefore, there's still time to slack off—to think of something to paint.

Why in the hell did she change her interest from traditional Japanese painting to oil? What happened to that?

Boredom. That's what. Never had been a moment that she was too fed up with something that she's exceptionally good; for once she had a talent to consider as above-average—in fact, incomparable—which Sachiko had even mentioned so many times before, back when she decided to apply for an art major.

Somehow being bored and having artist's block never meshed. But why was she feeling that way? When did she ever become so sarcastic while talking to herself?

She collected the rest of the brushes that she used for the day (and for last week) and went to the sink to clean them. Simple paint thinner would not even remove the kind of oil that she used. The sponsors had been so generous in providing the best paints and she had no problem with that.

After cleaning the brushes, she went back to the infinished restoration and inspected it once again. _Crap, strayed plastered paint. _She was in the eye of the mess when she looked for the x-acto knife to pluck the dried paint off the canvas. There it was, lost among a can of brushes.

Then, she cut herself. _Damn._

An art student should be cut with the famous x-acto knife as some sort of passage—a christening. However, _christening _did not happen in the middle of an elementary level art class, but elsewhere. She had her first cut way before she became one, back when she sneaked into his father's studio. She was fiddling with the x-acto to his father's unfinished canvas, copying him, and then with her untrained hand, she cut herself. It bled terribly; she was running to her father, telling the story, saying sorry because of her intrusion to her father's things. Yet, her father gave her a blank stare, then another to her injured hand. The x-acto was telling something, he said, and then proceeded to get the first-aid kit.

That was the legend. Still, cutting herself would mean that something happened with her works. That was what some sempai would often comment. She looked at her bleeding ringfinger. The hell that she would lick her paint-covered hand. She could handle the small fresh slit upon her skin, yet the blood just won't stop flowing. _Damn it, any clean rag here? _Having no patience, she raised the front of the hem of her workshirt, and dabbed the injured skin inside.

Three knocks resonated from the door. It must be the boss, inspecting the changes in the painting under restoration. The person outside let herself in, and was having a slight worried expression upon her face. When Yumi noticed her, the former smiled as if to say: _come on, give me something rather than, how's the progress?_

Indeed, it was different.

"Fukuzawa-kun, _The Passing Wind_,"

That was the title of her most celebrated painting, done three years ago, before she decided to change into oil.

"It was stolen."

Yumi's eyes went wide. Then, she frowned grimly. _So that's what the x-acto is telling me._

* * *

That happened at the east wing of the gallery that Fukuzawa Yumi was working. She abruptly left her working station, passed her small office, and to the first floor where the police, gallery ushers, security guards and curators were gathering people and leading them outside. Most of the civilians were fuming because of the disturbance, but others were turning to spectators, shocked at the spreading news that a Fukuzawa painting was missing at the Nihonga section. Yumi checked her watch; it was three in the afternoon; how come that the painting was stolen at a godforsaken time like this?

She headed straight to the crime-scene, following the footsteps of her boss. Everyone was angry, looking at the messed up wing—apparently, someone induced fire and smoked inside, activating the alarms and water sprinklers. Metal plates covered the paintings. Yet, when the metal sheets uncovered the walls, one painting was missing after the alarm and sprinklers were disabled. Fukuzawa's painting was gone, apart from all that should have much more worth. Indeed, this made Yumi smile for a bit—_someone preferred my work than the more famous ones. Bite that. _Yet, she did not want that. She just wanted her works to be displayed in public, for the public audience, and not in some private collections and lonely houses who just want a piece of Japanese painting as internal décor.

When the metal barricade that was activated during the alarm was uninstalled, Yumi stepped her paint-covered loafers onto the wet floor, inspecting the empty wall that used to be the home of _The Passing Wind_.

"Yumi."

She looked sideways, to the direction of the voice and found her brother standing beside her, who was looking at the empty wall too. He said, "Do you have any idea why someone would want to steal your work?"

"Everyone wants my work, Yuuki." She folded her arms. Then the room now was filled with uniformed officers, sleuthing to every corner of the wet room. She personally doesn't like the suddenly humid atmosphere. Yuuki, however, donned the usual black coat and tie; his average-size frame misleading others as a sign of frailness, yet he held himself in standing position for a long time without any movement detected from his sharp black leather shoes. Not even a trace of twitching or fatigue.

The painter looked back at the empty wall, not minding the people swarming to and fro behind her. "You have your gun with you?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Nothing. I just need to feel it in my hands."

Yuuki tried to ignore that comment. "No leads yet," He, too, was looking at the same direction. "You could have been filthy rich if you sold your paintings in auctions. Many wealthy guys are drooling at the sight of your works. I really don't understand why you only want them for the public gallery."

"They don't understand a single shit of my work. Don't you have work to do, Detective?"

"Lots. Thank you, Yumi, for giving me a job. Our guy made too much mess."

"You don't say." She spat.

Yumi looked at his brother, who was now taking a medical glove from a uniformed officer and was inspecting the blasted hidden camera that was shut down. Even though those paintings were installed with sensors and invisible lasers, they still manage to pilfer it in such short period of time. Two minutes of shutting down the security, disabling the cameras, getting the painting out of its frame, and getting it out of the gallery was just too crafty. They were getting more conniving and clever as time passed by.

But, on second thought, without thieves trying to steal works of art, galleries around the world won't bother upgrading their own toys too. But the fact that the gallery had some of the latest security measures was the thing that bothered the painter. And she thought that the place where she stood was the safest place in the Earth.

Looking at her brother, she noticed how different their trails that they took after high school graduation. He became a cop, consistent to his ideologies and principles; she became a painter, consistent with their family's tradition. Their father was an architect, while their mother was an illustrator for many children's books. She shifted her interest with the hard art, while his brother deviated from the usual Fukuzawa occupation and shifted to something totally unrelated. He preferred guns to the x-acto knife.

Yuuki had been a part of the robbery division of the Musashino police. This was the first time someone has successfully got a painting outside the premises of the public gallery. Too bad that even with his job, he could not even prevent himself from getting involved in anything artsy.

She went to his brother who was now fingering the wall where her painting suddenly disappeared. She stated what was on her mind, "Even with your job, you're still able to get into my workplace. This must be a sign for you to join the family business. You can still consider the visual arts as a hobby." She said it so mockingly that Yuuki rolled his eyes because of irritation.

He retorted, "When was the last time that I found you so endearing?" Yuuki, however, was faithful to his work that he did not even move his head to face his sister.

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Art school changed you. Ever since you went out of Lillian, you've been in constant shit. Is it because Maria-sama is not watching you anymore?" He returned playfully.

"You can say that." She smirked. Then she offered again. "I've seen your sketches before. They're actually pretty good. Why did you choose this cop job anyway? Too tired of the smell of india ink and watercolor and acrylic?"

"I have different way of viewing things. I still believe I can change the world this way. Too bad I'm in assigned here. Have you ever dreamed of changing things?" He said, fed up with Yumi's mockery, Yuuki faced her and his eyes turned into slits. "Why am I so surprised that I find you so calm? Your work is missing. It's _stolen_. Doesn't that disturb you the most?"

Yuuki was able to get into her nerves. It was moments before she whispered, "That's why I needed your gun."

The detective sighed, regretful of what he said and what it implied. "I understand. Little brothers are always the shock absorbers of angry older sisters. Rest, take a sleeping pill or whatever and do something not artsy."

_Not artsy. That's all you could come up with? _She put her hand on Yuuki's one shoulder. He just smiled. Somehow, that made her calm.

"That's so sad, Yuuki. I'll let your people deal with this. Just get my stuff back to where it belongs. I'm busy."

* * *

_Not artsy, my ass._

Yuuki went to his sister's office to take a sneek peek at her office room and studio. He did not bother to knock—being a police officer made him forget that simple gesture if it were related to her sister. He did not bother; why would he knock if he assumed that Yumi was not there anymore, doing something suicidal, or whatnot?

Suicidal was the term—it became part of Yuuki's description of the former Red Rose and sister, ever since she came back from Kyoto years ago. She was there to be an appentice for one of the masters in tradional painting, and from then on, things happened. They never met, talked, or corresponded when she was undergoing her apprenticeship, and few years after she went there, her immediate and frequent answer for her failure to communicate was because she was very busy.

_Busy_ means social isolation.

(Busy? She was so busy in the last two years that she could not produce a finished painting.)

The detective silently opened the door leading to the artist's studio and as expected, she was there, doing some restoration of some oil painting (Yuuki tried not to analyze the general principles applied into the artwork; he was way too done with that). Yuuki could see parallel lines forming on Yumi's forehead; her eyes were focused to a large, thick lens, inspecting a minute portion of the canvas, while her other hands separately holding an x-acto knife and a 0.25 mm round paintbrush. With those two weapons, it was better not to bother her—she could kill a person if someone jerked her off of her concentration.

Before, if he did something like that, Yumi's initial reaction would be a high-pitched shout, a pout, and eyes flowing with tears. He never saw her like that anymore. She used to be a crybaby; now, she's able to be a complete bitch with a sharp tongue, a quick mind, and a silent smirk.

(In a way, she scared him.)

He was staring at her through the small slit of the door, and there he watched her calm hands worked upon the canvas she's restoring. He was about to leave, when he heard her removed her hands away, shoved the x-acto and the paintbrush into a can, removed the thick lens away from her face, and muttered an angry expletive.

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading this chapter. I do not own anything of Maria-sama ga Miteru. I could only account for the plot. To those of you, who read this prologue, please tell me if there are inconsistencies about Yumi's occupation—she restores old paintings. And she's doing things in oil. If some art student or art enthusiast had read this, please PM me so that I could correct my mistakes and advise some sort of avenue or source to make this authentic. The _detective_ thing too. It will be my pleasure to include your name in the chapter to acknowledge your cooperation while working this fic.

This is my second Marimite long story. This is going to be Yumi-centric. Please don't forget to PM/review, so that I would know your opinions. I am excited to write this one, and it will be much more fulfilling if I could see some feedback. Thank you.


	2. Chapter 2

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_I looked at _The Passing Wind_. _

_The lazy ocre yellow lights could not even illuminate the grandeur of the erratic strokes of different shades of gold brushed to the canvas. It was an unparalleled panoramic view of the sky—different from the usual joyful hues of blue during summer midday, or from the smears of red, orange, yellow, and blue during sunsets. It was the sky of death, expressed ironically of the lively color of yellow, tinted with gray and black, as if a huge amount of toxic smoke devoured the blue sky and enveloped it with heat, fire, and decay. Amidst of the environment was a naked woman being swept away by the noxious wind, her arms flailing, her feet disintegrating into ashes as she welcoming it. Her face had a bright, satisfied smile and her eyes halfway closed—a woman hungry for freedom. I felt that way whenever I stared at the painting. But this was the only third time I examined it with hungry eyes._

_Pouring myself a drink, I looked at the painting again, and motioned a salute. For having it with me for the night._

_The first time that I saw, it was in that same old wall where it was originally displayed. It was natural that I'd go there from time to time, since some of my purchased paintings were being loaned by the gallery. That was three years ago of summer 1997, the year she debuted, gathering the art spectators all over Musashino. She was recommended by Satou Sei-sama, to display her paintings in the public gallery where the latter was working. At first, only Masashino citizens were present in the first days of the exhibition, I heard, but after weeks of display, her works were garnering people from different parts of Tokyo, then of Japan, then of the globe._

_I was with the international circle, and the moment I saw it, I could not take my eyes from the woman, amidst of the people rushing, bumping amongst each other. It was the best course not to look again—it reminded me of the past that took me a considerable amount of time to overcome. Yet, I felt compelled, that somehow my feelings were in harmony with it._

_I wished to own it, but I did not have the power to acquire it. It was also firmly stated by her representative that nothing that Yumi made and would make would ever be sold to anyone. Either it would be displayed in a public museum, or it would be kept in Yumi's basement. If the worst circumstances happened, everything will be owned by his brother, on condition that he will maintain its display in public._

_Sad, indeed. If I let her know that I want to keep it, surely, would she reconsider her decisions?_

_Years later, I was still trying to forget about it. I made myself more important and powerful. Somehow, in the middle of marveling my deeds and becoming bored at my achievements, I remembered that painting. I remembered the intimate marvel of being into the mind, heart, and soul of the painter._

_Then, it dawned to me: why not keep it for myself? I am optimistic that she would understand._

* * *

CHAPTER 2

* * *

"Go back. Again please," Shimazu Yoshino ordered as she stared at the large-screened monitor of the security room of the museum. In her dark green powersuit, she was scoffing in impatience as she inspect—over and over—seven cameras that should have been monitoring the security of the painting, and everyone that went in and out of the east wing of the gallery. As usual, the videos were showing that the wing was jam-packed with people: foreigners, students, civilians, curators. It seemed that nothing was wrong, except the feeling in her gut that something was missing. She inspected every pixel. Nothing was wrong.

When the uniformed employee of the gallery ran the video again, she watched intently. She held on to a green sludge of a drink (Yuuki-san paled in disgust as she gulped), and with her other hand she moved a long tress of black hair from her chest to her back. Still nothing.

Why the hell the security did not notice the discrepancies? The video was cut the two minutes before the fire alarm, and according to them, the video was fine that when the alarm went of, they could see from the screen that the people were evacuating away from the east wing because the sprinklers were enabled.

Then the screen showed people being pushed by security outside, and when sprinklers and barricades were activated, they ran out of the room. Thus, artificial raining began. Metal plates unfolded like fans and covered the paintings.

Then, the screen showed static.

At the site itself, the barricade, which shut the wing from the rest of the gallery, was not fully closed because it was stopped by a briefcase containing a thick titanium alloy. It was situated at one corner of the doorway, just below where the barricade would fall down. It was able to sustain the barricade's weight, thus enabling anyone to penetrate the wing by doing a planking position. Water sprinklers and metal plates were enabled because of teargases found inside the wing.

It was still unknown on how the painting was whisked from the wall with metal plates protecting it. How the security cameras were invaded was still being figured out by the logistics, but they found a small mechanism known as a "spider" attach to the main conduit. It was also the reason why they thought they were seeing a different feed from the screen.

Those who pretended to be security personnels of the museum must have been staged to be there. They succeeded in drawing the attention of the police only to them. But the question was: did they know that they were being set-up?

The suspects were now in the interrogation room. They (five of them) pretended to be uniformed sentinels of the gallery, and of a Southeast Asian descent, however, only one of them knew Japanese. Civilians obeyed them to leave the premises of the east wing because firstly, they blended among the Japanese crowd, and secondly, they donned the uniforms of the gallery employees.

"How was it?" Fukuzawa Yuuki inquireed the moment he went inside the room.

"They're really good."

"I hear annoyance amidst the praise." Yuuki deadpanned as he tried not to look at Yoshino's large cup.

Yoshino noticed his discomfort immediately, "Wanna try?" It was strongly rejected. "Well, how were the suspects?"

"The bastards could not understand a single shit of Japanese . . . I mean, ounce of Japanese." Yuuki tried to filter the cuss word out of his vocabulary, but Yoshino seemed not to mind the sudden usage of expletive. It was quite unfair for the woman (he scolded himself) that he was having stereotypical view of what a Lillian graduate was.

(Take his older sister for example.)

The apology was overlooked by the insurance agent. "You did not change the word 'bastard' though."

While Yuuki was standing in front of the stacks of monitors, extensive keyboards and elaborate mouse, Yoshino helped herself into a cushoned computer chair and crossed her legs. Several hours after the painting was missing, when suddenly, Yoshino had been parading herself into the crime scene, tapping her feet against the marbled floor, and telling everyone that she was allowed to be here. The insurance agent was hired by the museum. "It hurt me that Yumi would entrust finding her painting to _you_, and not to the police."

Shimazu snapped at him, that the contents of her cup almost poured to the keyboards. "Look it, porcupine-head, I was never hired by Yumi-san. Satou Sei-sama got me here to investigate. It's for the gallery's insurance. The funny thing was that even though Yumi was pissed off, whenever her stuff is stolen she never asked for legit help. Blame Sei-sama, not me. It's not just about the five percent. Got it?"

Yuuki remained silent.

"Let me handle them." Yoshino gulped the last bits of her green drink.

"Do you even know their language?"

"South-east, right? No, but I'll call someone for help." Yoshino reached out for her phone in the side-pocket of her slacks and furiously punched her thumb against the buttons. "I can't believe I'm asking her."

"Who?"

"Chisato-san. She knows these things." Yoshino put the phone on her ear and waited for Chisato to answer. Yuuki focused more on the mutliple screens in front of him while Yoshino changed the tone from the cheeky, dominating voice to a silent, calm one. The cop was making one of the computer guys to scan the videos once again for his inspection; Yuuki gained a small complaint from him, yet he followed Yuuki's instructions.

". . . yes, I just . . . no, Chisato-san, I don't know . . . Of course, your efforts will be highly acknowleged by authorities. Goodbye, then." She put her phone back at her pocket.

Yoshino sighed. "I'm still new to the business, but Sei-sama hired me even though my seniors were better and more used to this. Really, it's not just about the money."

"I can see that."

Yuuki understood, because Sei-san and Yumi were very close. He had known Yumi's superior in an accidental meeting, years ago, when Yuuki barged inside Yumi's house because of worry (She was not answering his calls). Apparently, he didn't like what he saw; Yumi sleeping on Sei-san's lap, had dried tears upon her cheeks. It had been the time after Yumi went back from Kyoto. No one, not even Touko, knew her whereabouts.

(A lost soul could also find another lost soul.) Sei was the only one who could do it.

* * *

Yoshino looked at her watch; she's cutting too much hours that was alloted for her free time. She had a strict eight-hour working time, yet today she extended it for more than six. Maybe she wanted to get this case to be done soon; she did not want to see a moody Yumi parading into the building, unconsciously pestering her brother about it. Yoshino wanted to talk to her just like friends, not because she was part of the investigation. When Yumi saw her fumbling along the security cameras, she immediately deduced that Yoshino was sent to investigate by Sei-sama.

It felt like as if she needed to be acquainted with her all over again.

The painter had improved her acting abilities a little. When they saw each other for the first time, Yoshino noticed a slightly bright color upon her features, but she immediately smirked and pretended as if Yoshino were her co-worker—she just raised her hand to say _Hi_.

When they talked for the first time that day, Yoshino had begun to watch her words closely because at some point in the conversation, Yumi would look at her with a raised eyebrow and would tartly reply, "Is that so?" Then, she realized that she said something illogical or stupid.

(She argued that she was trying to lighten the mood.)

But one thing did not change: it was her transparency. When she's angry at the moment, she will show it. If she's amused, she'd smirk. If she felt like taunting others (Yoshino noticed it whenever Yumi did), then she won't hesitate. That would make Yumi so full of herself, but when was the time Yumi had been like that?

It was a breath of fresh air, a new perspective for Yoshino, a new thing to ponder on. But, she wanted to point out her that she preferred what Yumi used to be. That kind and gentle wind.

Yoshino knew what happened to her. They all knew, yet when they tried to breach their gaps, and reach out to her, she would retaliate. All she said was "Leave me alone." gravely that they could not retort. She never said that line before.

Since then, she used it all the time.

Time passed, priorities had changed. Soon, they have forgotten.

Yoshino checked her things in her makeshift office at the police station where Yuuki was working. She just loved how she could manipulate things by just batting eyes. The deed was not deliberate, not thoroughly flaunting, but she knew she wanted to control things during her investigation. When she was going out, she saw Yuuki getting his jacket from the backrest of his chair. They were the last ones in the floor. Janitors were now routing upon corridors and workstations.

"Hey, Yuuki-san."

"Yoshino-san."

Yoshino noticed his cleanly pressed white shirt. Working more than fifteen hours would inevitably wrinkle any good clothing. "You changed your suit and tie. Going on a date?"

Yuuki scratched the back of his head. A little blush escaped upon his cheeks. "Yeah."

"Of course."

Then she began to head to the elevator. Yuuki followed, and the former guessed that this must be the time to ask this: "Is Yumi home by now?"

Yuuki went limp, "I don't know. But the best thing to do, if you want to talk with her, is to get her out of the gallery."

"She's been working at this late of night?"

"I think so. I check on her sometimes. Touko and I need assurance that she won't be killing herself at work." When the elevator doors were closed, Yuuki immediately pressed a button for the parking area.

"Have you talked to Sachiko-sama or Touko-chan about this?" Yoshino asked nervously. She felt her saliva thicker than before.

"No. I don't have to. They probably saw it in the news hours ago. But Touko isn't calling me yet. She's still tired from her exams, and I don't know when to drop the bomb in the date. Anytime she can explode."

The elevator doors opened, they walked to their cars, which were parked together.

"Better call and tell her now."

"I think you're right."

"Of course I am. The earliest and immediate time is the best time for everything. Put your feet in women's shoes sometimes. Goodnight." Yoshino bid a farewell speech, and opened the door of her car.

When she was inside, she knew the first place she would visit for the night. The museum might be closed for reception, but her badge and occupation would make it otherwise.

* * *

She was almost asleep.

Yumi heard three knocks upon her door. She immediately knew that it was not some employee of the museum—they don't knock on _her _door. They usually leave it alone. Sei was the only person who would break an unspoken rule, and she once admitted that she did it for entertainment purposes. Apparently, Sei's level of annoying had taken higher strata; she was not anymore dealing with a gullible Yumi. Despite of her first theory, she noticed that the intensity of those three knocks was not as violent as Sei would want it; it was uniformed, refine and quick. Second theory: it must be her boss. She sighed again, _what now?_

But then, the boss should have opened the door right away. The knocker waited for Yumi's reply. It's not him. She was supposed to be knocking his door. Not otherwise.

"Leave me alone."

A voice emanated through the door. "No. I will barge in, no matter what you say."

(Ah.) "Then do it now, Yoshino." Yumi lazily said.

After the door opened slightly, Yoshino's head appeared. "Are you packing up?"

"No, I'm busy."

Yoshino walked inside, setting a beeline to Yumi and her couch through the horrible mess of her workshop. Yumi wore a straight-cut jeans almost faded with time and paint. Her top was just a sleeveless shirt, also had been abused by paint and time. She tried not to step onto something. Yumi was on her couch; her feet crossed and rested on the arm, while her head was hanging at the other. "You're sleeping." Yoshino said sarcastically.

Yumi did not bother to remove herself from the couch. "Yeah, I am. And that's work too. Have you ever had insomnia? Getting me to sleep is work."

"My god, Yumi, you are a mess. Come on, I'll take you home. We'll talk on the way."

"Talk? Who said anything about talking? Yoshino, let me sleep."

That made Yoshino summoned guts to be more stubborn than normal. She put both her hands in Yumi's armpits and raised her up as if she were a small child. Yumi, however, was surprised with Yoshino's strength that she just realized that she was already by the door, with Yoshino pulling her by the arm. "You will go home. Take a bath. You reek of paint. Your clothes reek of paint. Take a rest there. It's an order."

"Whoa, Yoshino, you still have your spunk after all these years. You can't just order me around, yet you act like you're responsible for my food." She let herself be hauled away from her workshop. They were now in her office, and Yoshino kept on dragging her while getting Yumi's bag and black jacket on the way.

Yumi wondered, "How the hell do you know the things to get?"

"I'm so happy I found you quite dense right now. I'm essentially a detective, Yumi."

When they reached the parking lot, Yumi removed her arm from Yoshino's grip and got her keys in her bag. She tossed it back to Yoshino. Then, Yumi went to the other side of the parking lot, not minding the detective, who was about to get her keys on her pocket, too.

Yoshino, however, knew that Yumi would not follow her to the car, and she anticipated it. The counter-attack was easy; she would get hold of Yumi's arm again. She opened the door of her car to settle Yumi's things at the passenger's seat when she saw a bright yellowish light, lighting her back. When she was about to turn, she heard an angry yet smooth grumble of a motorcycle.

(Black helmet, black motorcycle, black jacket.)

Yumi tossed another helmet to Yoshino.

"Is this your _ride_?" Yoshino was not expecting that from Yumi.

Yoshino could feel the smirk inside the helmet. Yumi slid the tinted face protector upward. "Naaah. That would be un-Yumi-like." Yumi said nonchalantly.

Yoshino inspected the motor. She could not help but touch the cushoned, black-leathered seat. "Are we really . . . ?"

Yumi scowled. She seemed to misunderstand Yoshino's words that she spat immediately, "I'm not drunk, Yoshino. I just can't sleep. Get our things from your car. We'll ride on this baby."

"Why not my car?"

"Yoshino-chan," Yumi deliberately imitated Eriko-sama, knowing Yoshino's buttons, "I simply will not allow myself in your car. Surely, that will be too imposing on you." Yumi flashed a smile.

"You really try so hard for me to get rid of you tonight, don't you?" Yoshino annoyingly answered back.

"I thought you notice!"

"That is enough, Yumi! Mind your manners." She copied Sachiko-sama, much to the biker's surprise. Then the latter erased her smile from her face and replaced it with a firm frown. She turned her eyes into slits. Yoshino retreated, noticing that she just stepped on a large landmine. She surrendered, walked near to the bike, and placed her hand upon Yumi's arm. "Sorry, I was too competitive in winning this stupid tug-of-war. Please, I want to talk to you, after all this time. You haven't contacted anyone ever since you came back from Kyoto. Not even _me_, your best friend. And that was years ago. I really missed you, you know."

Yumi looked downward at Yoshino, trying not to laugh at the sudden display of tenderness. She grinned. "Get our bags. We'll take out Chinese—whatever you like, and get drunk in _sake_. My treat."

Yoshino beamed and quickly headed to her car.

(You can be by yourself for just a night, can't you?)

When she came back, put on the helmet, and settled herself at Yumi's back, she said, "You do this to everyone who bothers you? I mean, do you drink all the time?"

"I can handle it. I may sound angry, but I don't drink much. But I want to be, right now. I lost a painting, didn't I? It's natural to get drunk today." She knocked in place the piston with her shoe, and twisted the hand knob. The engine growled loudly.

"You won't ditch this chance, right? It's a very rare offer. You won't get inside my house without promising me _sake._" Yumi stated as she let the bike run.

Yoshino moved her arms tighter upon Yumi's abdomen. "You're nuts."

* * *

She was not a regular housewife. She firmly rejected that kind of role the moment she agreed to marry him. Although her grandfather had opposed strongly this kind of demand from her, he understood that he had to concede. Better to have her liberty for her obedience. She never bargained this fiercely with him and her grandfather, and to choke her temper would never close any conversation.

She was not at the kitchen; she was sitting comfortably inside a limousine that she and her husband use for office travel. Yes, they were co-workers under the direction of her father. They were in the same office building owned by the Ogasawara Zaibatsu; they walk upon the same halls, ride the same elevators and sat on adjacent chairs upon every executive meeting. The times when she was not with him were during office hours, having separate offices. She insisted that she wanted to direct the public relations department, not to get too much exposure from him.

She admired him. He was kind. He was not limiting. He let her to do whatever she wanted, not just be concerned with domestic issues. When she demanded that she wanted to work in the company, he supported her. He was very understanding. He knew how to handle her, not letting her get too astray. He was never cruel. He was honorable. He vowed not to betray her trust. And thus far, he did not cross the line, unlike her father and grandfather had done to their wives.

She accepted him, but she would not be surprised if he proved himself wrong.

The trust that she had for men was close to nil, and until now, she was looking for an avenue not to open herself to other opinions. Her husband, however, was very tricky. She trusted him, but not enough to open herself wholly to him. Not even in their most intimate moments that she lost herself to the notion of showing vulnerability.

He honestly told her that he'll always try. He would make her love him.

All these years, many were the moments that she witnessed him being angry of her cold treatment, but as time went by, she let herself warm up to him. To be the wife that she should be. Her husband's response was immediate; he was happy of her wife suddenly opening up. Soon, it became a norm for her.

Her life was machinery full of routine. She was not maltreated, never downgraded, never discriminated.

Yet, she doesn't deserve her husband.

"Are you alright, Sachiko?"

"Yes. Please rest. Do not worry about me." She said.

When they went back to the Touma mansion, it was already late when she let her husband settled upon their bed. Both were too tired from office work. She then set the alarm and lied down.

Yet, for an hour she was unable to get sleep, even with evident fatigue. She got a book, yet all she gained from reading was the interest to finish it.

(That would be quite bothersome, considering that she wanted to sleep.)

Therefore, she picked another method. Television. News. A good way to lull herself.

She picked the remote control and turned the TV on.

She chose a news channel. She conditioned herself to be disinterested (she was trying to sleep), letting the sound of the news anchor's voice hung upon the air like a lullaby. She was on the verge of slumber when the anchor's voice mentioned a name she knew too well.

_Fukuzawa Yumi._

_The Passing Wind._

Her eyes suddenly stung with moisture, her throat and nose suddenly blocked. Her hands covered her mouth, to curb a gasp. She raised the volume of the television. Beside her, her husband grunted.

"I'm so sorry . . . ."

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading this chapter! Still, please address whatever confusion you had after reading the second chap.

I know that every player in the story was analyzing Yumi's character all over again (particularly Yoshino), but that's her point of view of Yumi after few years of no correspondence. Her analysis may be right or wrong. They are already adults and they were focused on their own lives, their individual work. They might sound unconcerned with the separation—but that was not entirely the case.


	3. Chapter 3

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_The moment the television was turned on, her name would be all over the news. That was bound to happen; everyone knew of her works. Particularly the one I stole. Everyone was focused on the foreigners that I hired to break through the museum. It was also bound to happen that they would be caught, without even getting their hands on it. The moment they pretended to be the museum's ushers were the moment they exposed themselves to vulnerability. They were grilled to talk, but everything was futile; not only that they just did what I told them, they never knew what painting to touch. They just commenced what I wanted them to do; they had just prepared the carpet I'd walked on. They helped in disabling alarms, misleading civilians, but never did they were told to pilfer. They received an incredible amount of money to be strict with their mission._

_I double-crossed them. All of them were captured. But no matter—I had done what I promised: they already received the half of their paycheck. Without any trace of the transaction._

_Many times, I told myself that I only want her painting; it was one of the very few things that interest me. I have not forgotten the past. Yet, I too was bound to be attracted to her, since I knew her. And she once knew me, too._

* * *

CHAPTER 3:

* * *

Yumi was sitting on a futon at the porch of a summerhouse, revealing the misty forest of the backyard. They once had a tour there. It was close to evening; even though mist coming from the forest had been devouring the surroundings, Yumi never felt warm, even though she was completely naked, and only a white sheet of blanket was covering her hips, thighs, and legs. One hand, she was holding a large brush, and on the other was a plate, where her pigments were mixed. In front of her was a canvass resting upon the porch rails, depicting the exact albeit incomplete replica of the scenery before her—the mist enveloping the trees, the redness of the sky above them. She was fascinated by the vivacity and chaotic colors of the sky, the hues of reds, oranges, and yellows against the blue, white, and green of below. She was halfway finishing it, and no matter if darkness was about to devour the colors away from the scenery; she had imprinted the picture to her memory and heart. Many shared experiences happened in this place; how could she forget such vibrant panorama?

"It's halfway finished." Yumi perceived by her right ear.

"It's alright,"

Around her stomach and chest were two long, slender arms circling them. On her shoulders, upper arms, and breasts were tangles of black and chocolate brown locks of hair, while on her right shoulder, a delicate chin was resting, the slightly opened mouth above it sending steady breaths of air to her right neck and ears. Mounds of breasts pressed to Yumi's back, loosing and tightening as her captor exhaled and inhaled. These were the reasons she was not able to finish the painting. She smiled at the distraction.

She set aside her brushes and plate, along with the incomplete painting. Then she moved her head sideways to meet her lips to the other's cheek, saying, "I don't mind." Yumi felt the arms around her loosened up, and she shifted her weight to embrace the woman behind her. One arm enclosed around the back of the other's chest, while the other reached upward so that its hand could hold the mass of hair on her head. Her yearning for the other's touch was beginning to manifest to her whole body, as she gently pushed her to the futon, and kissed her hungrily on the mouth. Yumi's hands began to explore downward—to the mounds of breasts, to her stomach and navel—lower and lower . . . until she felt herself rolled to her back.

"No, let me." Yumi heard.

Her lands went limp as she released her hold from her partner as she let herself be exploited and explored. She could feel grazes of teeth and tongue upon her chests and stomach. She began to feel an abnormal heat upon her pelvis, spreading out, as she sensed hands upon it. Her sighs turned into quick gasps. Even though her eyes were opened, she could see the sky darkening.

"Sachiko . . ."

Then it turned to pitch black, along with everything around her. Then, her unfinished painting appeared before her, and before she could reach and touch it, fire began to spread upon the sides. She tried to reach for it once more, hoping to extinguish the fire, yet she was unable to move. The view of the incomplete forest began to burn, and the sky's angry colors started to merge with the fire below. She could smell wood and leaves burning. Her eyes ached because of the smoke. She felt as if she was part of those trees; her feet began to burn, her skin beginning to melt to reveal her red, bloodied flesh. She was starting to lose her mind.

An x-acto knife appeared upon her hands. Upon seeing it, she held upon it like a butcher's knife, and plunged the scalpel through the middle of the painting. When she retrieved her hand, she saw her canvass transformed into _The Passing Wind._ The woman drawn still had her smile, her nearly closed eyes, but in between her breasts were gushes of blood spurting out whenever the heart hammered, tainting Yumi's face. She could hear its beating as if her ear was at a base drum brutally being pounded. Even her eyes were caught a jet of the bright red substance.

". . . DIE!"

Then she woke up. She was panting heavily, as she realized that her arms were flailing until she became fully conscious. She was drenched with sweat that her old cotton shirt was sticking to every part of her body that it covered. Her futon, too. Her head felt heavy, thus she bowed down slowly and closed her eyes, letting her heartbeat calm down. Beads of sweat on her head were rolling down her nose and chin.

She clenched both her hands. She hatefully admitted defeat when she felt an unusual damp between her legs. She rolled her eyes. _Fucking traitor. Anyone could be aroused in that kind of wet dream._ But then, it was because of Sachiko. A faint memory of the past merged with some sort of incomprehensible denouement. She shivered in extreme disgust and terror.

Was she turned on to blood and death or to the sex beforehand?

When she looked at the alarm clock beside her, she turned off the alarm, a minute early for it burst on. It was already 5:59 a.m. She looked beside her and found Yoshino dozing off at the other futon.

She got up, determined to have her early bath.

"This is so uncool," she wore her occasional scowl, as she slid the door of the bathroom. When she did, she felt a sting upon her finger. The wound. "What are you trying to say now, _x-acto_-san?"

* * *

Three loud knocks. Yumi sighed upon the recognition of the person behind the door of her workshop. "Sei-sama, come in."

Sei's blonde head immediately sprang out of the door, which was banged sideward, causing a slight tremor upon the cans containing used brushes, upon the painting Yumi was restoring, and upon the overturned, unfinished canvasses leaning at the walls, except Yumi's hands. They were holding an x-acto and a small paintbrush. Yumi anticipated the sudden distraction; _that _was Sei. Of course, she would make a ruckus. She pushed everyone's buttons—Yumi's, her bosses', even her own. Sei was a crazy buffoon with clumsy appendages.

Good thing Yumi quickly removed away her hands from the half-finished canvas.

"What happened to your finger?" Sei asked.

"I cut myself. X-acto, as usual."

Sei raised a brow. "You don't just have cuts from x-acto. So, how's _The Passing Wind?_" She did not mind the clatter upon the painter's floor; she walked through the mess without breaking anything of Yumi's possession. She knew how to avoid landmines.

"Still missing."

"You're not looking for it?"

"No, that's Yoshino's and Yuuki's job." Yumi then turned to her work, settling her hands hanging just above the painting.

"You're angry that I contacted a friend from Lillian?" Sei settled herself in one wooden chair. She sat on it in a reverse manner.

"No. I actually found it surprising that I did not even avoid her. I was drinking with Yoshino last night."

"You punk. You got her drunk, didn't you?" Sei smirked.

She was still tinkering at a small portion of the painting as she talked uneventfully, "A punishment, Sei-sama. You hired her to investigate. What happened to her superiors? What on earth were they thinking that they sent a junior like Yoshino?"

"I don't know," Sei softened in front of Yumi that the latter felt that her mouth went too far. When Yumi was about to apologize (a rare occurrence), Sei continued. "Yoshino-san's your best friend. She always asks about you, but all I can say to her was to go visit you."

"She never did."

"Well, she thought that you're still recuperating. Everything about Kyoto disturbed you before. She said that hated the idea that she could only see you because of this robbery case."

"She did tell that to me. _Over bottles of sake._"

Sei smirked at Yumi. But, she was glad that until today Sei could still talk to her, without any pretenses. Yumi has always honest with herself, and she did not reject any changes upon her. She never hated what she had become.

Ever since she found Yumi in the lowest of her emotional state, she remained behind her back, guiding her not to get too far away. It was the moment that Yumi snapped, thus the building changes within the recesses of her soul began to conquer all of her—from the inside to the outside—transforming her into a foreign and unknown character. She must have suppressed any kind of change, given that everyone expected her not to. All her faculties had been focused upon her work, her passion to continue her dear parents' legacy, her obsession to her art, and when she was taken advantage when she was most vulnerable, offered with false hope, all her hidden monsters rose up to devour her reason and righteousness. Yet, it was inevitable.

She was true to the meaning of one kanji character of Yumi's name: the snake. She's most dangerous when all her defenses crumbled. When you picked on at a freshly molted one, it will never forget its attacker's face; it would strike back, disregarding everything, only to protect herself.

(Who would have thought that the selfless Yumi would have her limit?)

Everyone thought of her as the wellspring of genuine altruism. Well, they thought wrong.

Sei gulped for air before she said, "Another reason of why I'm here is to warn you: I saw someone at the office waiting for you. It's Touma Sachiko."

"Ogasawara Sachiko?"

Sei's face was unreadable. "She had the nerve to be walking right on your turf."

* * *

She knew that at some point of her life, she would see her again.

"Onee-sama."

She whispered breathlessly, but then her eyes became stormy the moment she uttered it. She did not know what to feel (bitterness or happiness?), yet upon seeing her after a long time, she decided that she felt nothing.

(To the point that she would openly show it. She would give Sachiko that pleasure.)

"It's been a long time, Onee-sama." She impishly grinned, unable to bring out the anger that she should have been feeling all this time.

"Yumi," Sachiko was the one who ran and embraced her petite soeur tightly. The painter could not oppose her arms, which were responding reluctantly back to Sachiko in light squeeze.

Yet, when they separated again and looked at each other's eyes, Sachiko became conscious of herself, making the air more cumbersome. She knew how she hurt Yumi before, more and extreme, yet all she wanted was to hug her tightly. For a moment that they embraced, the Ogasawara heiress felt a familiar feeling of the past—Yumi's gentle yet passionate affection for her—but when they parted, all she saw was Yumi's cold eyes.

They were the mirrors of the soul. She hated the fact that such saying was true.

Sachiko was surprised with herself—Yumi was the one who broke the moment, not her. "What brings you here? Many, many years of being elsewhere, you decided to pay a visit?"

The grande soeur frowned. "Yumi," She looked not to her petite souer's eyes, because it was true. "I came here to see if you were okay."

"You don't say," Yumi's words was burning Sachiko's calm. "You heard the news. My painting was stolen in broad daylight. You cannot possibly ask something that's so obvious." She put her hands to her pockets and looked straight at Sachiko's eyes. She was surprised at herself that she could looked straight at her, with all her faculties working, without feeling warm and frivolous (like she used to). Somehow, that empowered her.

Sachiko could not decide whether to laugh or cry. She had not changed a bit; she was honest and straightforward of her feelings, whenever she had a chance to be brave and say it. Sachiko, however, was not used to such a tone coming out of Yumi's mouth. She neglected her sarcasm a while ago, thinking that she deserved a little coldness, but she could not take it Yumi's tone. It was like she did not teach her any manners. "Yumi," her anger did not reach her eyes as she prepared to reprimand Yumi. "I did not teach you to be rude, especially to me."

"I thought you like me to always be _honest_, Sachiko," Yumi whispered, dismissing the provoked expression that Sachiko was wearing.

The latter, however, was surprised to hear her name—without any honorifics—once again after so many years. Intense memories flooded to her mind. But Yumi continued, after she felt that saying her onee-sama's name with acute familiarity would strike like an arrow. "You taught me everything I need to know, but you did not teach me what I want to know. I've come and gone, and I have learned my ways to the world. So let us ignore my behavior."

The air was too hot for both of them.

The door opened, with Sei barging inside the room without bothering to knock.

Sachiko hated the sudden tenderness of Yumi's voice when she offered, "Now, I suppose you still prefer black tea, Onee-sama? For old time's sake."

She longed to see Yumi, of the old times. But her smile was not genuine. That smile that used to astound Sachiko was in evident from Yumi's face.

* * *

It was hard watching her be treated like ragged doll. Yumi tried not to hold her breath the moment she saw her. She was more beautiful, different—yet Yumi felt the sameness in Sachiko's features that her absence after a few years rendered Yumi speechless. The familiarity of Sachiko's figure came to her mind in fast torrent of images—the high, regal cheekbones, her pink and succulent mouth, her dark eyes. Her black hair was the same as she could remember—long and shiny, like having an existence and autonomy of its own.

She felt the rush of the Muse coming to her again, and with the feeling, her heart almost stopped. Her hand twitched, her palm began to itch for the texture of her brushes. She felt the slice of an imaginary x-acto knife upon her forefinger. She felt a sting upon her hand. She could see bits and pieces of colors, later molding and mixing unto new ones. Plastering itself to a canvas.

Suddenly a picture was being formed. It started at the center, from a dot to a small circle, and then began to expand its circumference.

(An image!)

Yet, she could see anger, misery, pain, hopelessness in it.

Yumi took a wrong step and almost tripped while leading Sachiko out of her office. She motioned Sei to stick where she was ("Leave us alone."), and headed at the staff cafeteria to buy two cans of tea. She dispensed several coins to the vending machine. Then they immediately went out of the cafeteria to the elevator, and headed to the top floor. Then, she walked through a series of stairs leading to the rooftop of the museum.

At those times, Sachiko only followed, without even complaining.

At those times, Yumi tested her ability to control herself from snapping. (I did succeed.)

She closed the door when Sachiko was already outside.

"You said you wanted to talk. I only give you the best place without any ear around." Yumi said, trying to look at her in the eyes.

"I did."

Yumi gave her one can of black tea. She opened her own and took a sip. She decided to be straightforward as possible, without her usual sarcasm. "I never thought I'd be seeing you again. I thought that was the agreement." She said softly, as she looked at the metropolis.

Sachiko opened her can too, and took a sip. "There was never an agreement of some sort."

"Yeah, because you never agreed to anything."

Yumi looked for a place to sit. She walked away from Sachiko and sat against the wall near the door that she just closed a while ago. It had shade, so the pavement was not too hot. When she noticed that Sachiko remained standing, she patted the pavement beside her, and motioned for Sachiko to sit too. Disregarding the fact the Sachiko was wearing a corporate suit, and a fine, neatly pressed skirt.

Sachiko mentally debated. Then she inevitably sat.

"So, is he nice?" Yumi looked at the sky.

"Yes, very. He's not like father or grandfather at all. He's very loyal."

"God, he seems like a dog."

(No, he's not.) Sachiko contested whether she would voice this out or not. Her husband was never informed about Yumi and her, and she wanted it that way. He never doubted her when she said that she never had anyone. If he knew, he must have kept it to himself, and perpetually loved her with the notion that it was of the past. This made her even more attached to him—more of a conscientious decision—because he accepted her without confronting or digging further.

Yes, he was like Yumi: selfless.

"Are you still mad about my decision?" Sachiko asked for the first time, since she married.

The painter put her can down. She answered her one-time onee-sama like she was reciting a long mathematical expression—tired and bored. But bitterness was beginning to stir up to her throat.

"You _lied_. You did not give us a chance. Even if I told you I'd wait for you."

Sachiko said nothing more.

* * *

"She made me drunk." She refilled her second cup of coffee.

"You don't say." Yuuki absentmindedly said.

She took a sip, and grabbed tissues to wipe the stain from the side of her mouth. "I remembered it all—I was the only one talking. She did not even produce a complete sentence. She just poured and poured _sake_ in my cup. And I was attacking her with all of my frustrations about her. Next thing I knew, I woke up in her bed. An alarm clock was beside me, saying 'it's goddamn noon', I was wearing her pajamas, my clothes were washed and folded, and she made lasagna for lunch. She took care of everything, even aspirin. But then, she was nowhere in the apartment."

"You don't say."

Yuuki seemed to be not listening, but Yoshino wanted her frustrations out. "She knew _I hate to be late._ She just let the alarm clock disabled. She made me cancel my plans for revenge by taking care of me."

"I know, I know. Now, will you please—"

"She left the key of the house, so that when I'd return it to her, she'd be snickering at me."

"Oh, God, why?"

Frustrated, she looked back at him, with the contents of her cup almost spilling. "Is that all you could say?"

He grabbed his own cup and filled it. He appeared as if no one was hearing him, but Yoshino was listening intently. "Yumi is like that. She's always like that. She takes care of things without you knowing it. Ever since Mom and Dad died, she took the mother role. It's just that it's not evident anymore—" He took a sip, "Ouch!"

Yoshino only looked at the ceiling; she could not agree more—yet, how could this apathetic Yumi be like that, after all this time? Everyone tried to approach her after she came back from Kyoto. Yet, she did not let anyone get near her, not even Sachiko. She always had noticed that Yumi had some sort of unrequited love for her onee-sama, but she was not sure whether Yumi had confessed anything to her. Being in different universities, Yumi and Yoshino seldom saw each other. She always assumed that it was the case, which correctly correspond to Yumi's reaction last night when Yoshino suddenly imitate Ogasawara—no, Touma Sachiko. Yumi's unvoiced feelings led her not to attend Sachiko's wedding. It might have been unbearable to witness.

On second thought, as far as Yoshino observed, only Sei and Yuuki could get near her. Their strength sure was fearsome. Still, what was in Satou Sei that made Fukuzawa Yumi yield her stubborn defenses?

"When one sees her for the first time, one thinks that she's hopeless. Well, in a way he's right, but not entirely, if you know what I mean."

Yuuki appeared to be convincing Yoshino to leave his sister alone, but Yoshino could only roll her eyes. "Still unforgivable. She's the reason my schedule today's ruined. She made me late."

"Your absence is not greatly missed." He blew onto the black liquid this time and took a long sip.

A detective came inside to report to Yuuki. "A witness came," he said.

That was alarming. Two days had passed, yet a witness entered their station just now. With all the commotion inside the museum and the publicity—why now? Why not yesterday, when his or her memory is still fresh? Yet, a witness is a witness—he must be scared to be involved in this heist business.

Yet, when they went to the interrogation room, Yuuki could not move ever since he saw the man sitting down. He was sitting very comfortably upon the chair, while his one elbow was resting upon the long table. His broad back was crouching upon the chair. He was wearing a three-piece suit, yet it did not seem to go with his personality. His necktie was slightly loose. His skin was a little tanned; his black hair slightly messy. Yet, with such inconsistency of his appearance, when Yoshino looked at his profile, he was just one of the benefactors of the museum.

(In other words, filthy rich. Why did Yoshino feel that she'd seen him before?)

"Just let him talk. I think I knew him somewhere from before." Yoshino whispered. When she looked at Yuuki, he gulped. "You know him?"

Yuuki tried to smile, "Yes, I think so. It is very small world after all." He pointed a term in the submitted profile.

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

__**A/N: **Thanks for reading chapter 3! Please review! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**THE PASSING WIND**

_**-**__TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_Ito ay isang pugay sa lahat ng nagsipagtapos ngayong taon_

_Sa mga magigiting at matatapang na itinaas ang luntian at pula_

_Mabuhay ang pag-asa ng bayan!_

* * *

_The truth will set you free. In that case, she should have been caged forever._

_With determination, I shall be the one to release her from such cage. She thought that she freed herself from their influence; but in reality, they only staged a bigger cage for her, one she could never notice, and let her do whatever she wanted, not knowing that the sky she thought to be boundless was limited. _

_I've been in that cage once, and found myself freed from it by myself. I saw her in that same cage, struggling to get free. Many times I denied myself from helping her; she must do this herself. I got out of that cage—yet, should I show the way for her?_

_Because everything she did to be free is killing her._

* * *

CHAPTER 4:

* * *

Yumi stood up from the pavement the moment Sachiko tried to touch her hand. Although she was very much aware of her proverbial older sister trying to reconnect with her, she was not comfortable with the idea that she was staying more than she should. Today had been a very ominous one. She just dreamt of her then _she_ appeared before her. The painter looked at Sachiko blankly and said, "We should not be talking about our past. What was done was done. You surely moved on with it quickly. To explain ourselves would not bring back what we had before. But if you were asking for forgiveness, I'm afraid that you won't find it here. It's much too soon."

Sachiko stood by herself, since Yumi was not offering her hands. The latter opened the door, and said to the former, "We must go. I'm staying here more than I should."

She had no choice.

When Yumi closed the door after Sachiko got inside, Sachiko's patience with Yumi's indifferent attitude snapped. It was not only the past that changed her entirely, even her present was messing up her life. She could not fathom that she was not able to recognize her little sister and once lover over this woman. Yumi was descending the stairs without recognizing Sachiko's presence. In frustration, she cried at Yumi, "What happened to you? Where is the sweet, kind Yumi that I used to know since high school?"

Yumi stopped walking. "I thought you would never ask," she spat without looking back at her. "Lying bitches such as you killed her."

* * *

_Nine years ago_

She kissed her deeply and quickly that she was not sure whether to respond or to stop themselves. Onee-sama was quiet ever since they've been walking to the greenhouse. She was confused of why her older sister was behaving this way—it should have been otherwise—since she'd just graduated from high school and would pursue Fine Arts degree in Lillian University. She was not talking at her ever since the ceremony had finished. She just asked to talk privately.

Now, it came to this.

Yumi was happy she was beet red all over and she felt that she was sensitive of the places Sachiko had touched her. "Onee-sama," she breathed after their lips parted; she still felt the hot moisture of Sachiko's lips from her. "Do not joke about this. Please."

Yumi could not look at her, because if ever Sachiko was just teasing her heart, then it could be too much painful for her. Sachiko opened her eyes to something that she was not aware before. Probably to something that she tried to neglect over and over. She never knew, until now, that she wanted her older sister more than the common sisterhood, but of a unique, rare, and of pure kind. She must have loved her like a soulmate.

"Do you think I'm joking about this?" Sachiko whispered to her ear and embraced her tightly.

Yumi's mind had so many things running in her mind—but those were nullified by Sachiko's embrace. She still could not fathom that, somehow, they were now treading on a path that Sachiko herself would initiate.

"All I know is that, Onee-sama, I love you. All this time. But, it would be better if we shouldn't be doing this. But you—"

Yumi was reluctant to submit to Sachiko's silent offer—it was very evident upon her actions. It was evident that Sachiko had been seducing her the moment they went inside the greenhouse. It was not because she doesn't like what was happening now—it was more like she's more concerned with the future.

"I love you, too, Yumi."

Yumi could not argue with such a declaration. At last, her love was received.

* * *

_Present day_

A call interrupted Yumi. She reached for her pocket and flipped her phone. "What now? No, not at all."

Sachiko was still in shock after hearing Yumi's harsh description of her.

"Witness? Wait, I'll go right away." She closed her phone and put it into her pocket. Then she continued to walk.

Sachiko did not say anything, and just followed Yumi. After all these years of not seeing her, she thought that after all this time, Yumi's anger would somehow diminish. She thought that Yumi would forgive her, and accept her again, even as a friend. But it seemed that time did not heal Yumi's wounds. She had not heard from anyone from the Yamayurikai ever since the marriage. She just trusted her old memories about Yumi, thinking that talking to her would be easy.

By the time they reached the ground floor, only Sachiko stepped out of the elevator. Yumi remained and directly looked at her, she said, "If you want to see the rest of the gallery besides the old rooftop, you can ask one of the curators over that counter for your personal indulgence. Please appreciate and support the new artists. But if you don't have any business here, you could see yourself out." She smiled widely.

The doors closed, while Sachiko watched Yumi retain the smile on her face. Such a fake smile. Yet, even though they met again, Sachiko did not fulfill her goal: Yumi's acceptance of her apology.

* * *

Yoshino waited for her at the lobby of the police station. It was obvious the private investigator was very pissed, the fact that Yumi was wearing the smirk that Yoshino did not want to see. She was reminded of the gag that the painter had put her through. Being late, that was inconceivable. Yumi knew that she's like a ticked-off atomic bomb about punctuality, and Yumi just went on her taunting, not caring even if Yoshino had an axe to butcher her.

(Yes, she was that mad.)

"What?" Yumi asked rather abruptly.

Yet, after she called Yumi, she felt that there was something wrong about her best friend's gait. The negativity that emanated from the artist's body was unusually more malevolent than before. "What happened?"

Yumi was very good at dismissing Yoshino using her expressionless voice, but the lines upon her face could betray her. "I was in the middle of a _meeting_, Yoshino. Now, shall we proceed?"

They walked towards the elevator, and Yoshino was kind enough to stop the door from closing for those others that were rushing to the compartment like rabid dogs. Yumi just put her hands on her pockets, not mindful of the people around her.

Yoshino, being the meddler of the two, prodded bravely before other people fill the elevator. "I was hearing gusts of wind. Either you're at a rooftop, or you're in front of air-condition, or at a middle of a windstorm while talking to me."

Yumi gave her shocked expression, as if having eureka moment, "You don't say."

Yoshino rolled her eyes away. "Do not say that sentence ever again. I heard enough from Yuuki-san."

"I've no doubt that he's my brother."

"Whatever."

The compartment was now filled with people, uniformed and otherwise. Yoshino was lucky enough to observe that all others would vacate a floor before them. With that, she attacked again. "Now who was with you then?"

Even when the elevator closed, Yumi still did not answer her. That could only mean one thing. "Oh."

(What exactly was Yoshino thinking?)

Yumi thought that Yoshino assumed that she was with _someone._ Thinking of it sounds nearly improbable for her social situation, but not impossible. If Yoshino had been thinking that way, then . . . she would just go with the flow. She'd just let the insurance agent think of whatever she wanted to think.

Yumi sighed, and looked at the former Rosa Foetida with a forced smirk. "Yes, I'm with someone. You deserve a medal for smelling the general idea, Shimazu-san. Now, where's the witness?" she asked as they entered the floor.

"There he is." Yoshino pointed to the man sitting at the receiving area, who was talking to Yuuki.

Yumi narrowed her eyes. "I think I saw him before."

"He's from Hanadera Academy. He's Yuuki-san's sempai, Kashiwagi Suguru." Yoshino said, as she received a folder from a uniformed officer.

"Sempai?" Yumi narrowed her eyes. She had seen him before, and if her memory were accurate enough, he used to fetch Yuuki from the house for the reason of council activities—if he were Yuuki's sempai, as depicted in the tradition of the Hanadera council.

(Being the Rosa Chinensis, remembering that information was easy.)

"You probably know that he's one of the patrons of the gallery." Yoshino descreetly informed.

Yumi jerked slightly, "My bad."

(She obviously did not know that.)

Yuuki saw her, and asked her to advance to his worktable. They were formally introduced by Yuuki. She replied with a small bow and raised her hand to shake his. "Kashiwagi Suguru, thank you for your cooperation. I heard you're my brother's sempai back at Hanadera. Thank you for supporting the museum as one of our benefactors. I should have known."

"Yes, I was his kouhai. It's an honor to meet you. I admire your works. Particularly _The Passing Wind._"

She thought of a better answer for that praise. He's a sponsor? His gait would not expose it. "Ugh, thanks. Many would pick that one."

"Many critics were saying that it expresses bliss and freedom. But it was the opposite, wasn't it?"

She was not sure if he was not an art critic, but for the first time, someone guessed it right. He beamed as he spoke those words, but the enthusiasm expressed by his lips did not reach his eyes. She moved a step away from this man named Kashiwagi. She guarded.

_Away with you. Scary man._

* * *

Sachiko stood in front of _The Deformed, _another of Yumi's works. She had been staring at it for the rest of the afternoon, not minding the intensifying pain on her knees. Against her wits, she repeatedly played everything that happened that afternoon, from the moment she stepped on the gallery to the point that she was escorted away by Yumi. Sachiko felt Yumi the same as before—the smoothness of her chestnut hair, her petite figure, the strong smell of paint upon her hands and clothes. But she was not the same as she last seen her years ago.

She could not help but to embrace her the moment she saw Yumi. Even if with all her might, she must not do so. Seeing her face, she could not help it. But her words were tormenting her ever since Yumi spoke it—

"Ogasawara Sachiko, at last you had the nerve to come here unannounced."

She looked away from the painting, turning her head side to side, as she inspected her surroundings. She noticed several spectators of the Nihonga section, but she observed none of her acquaintance. Turning around, she saw a figure, wearing a white collared-shirt with its sleeves rolled up her elbows, and long legs covered with coffee-colored pants. Her blonde hair reached almost her lower back. Her bangs did not cover the heated stare of her gray eyes. She was sitting at a black cushioned bench at the middle of the Nihonga wing, facing one of Yumi's pieces. Her hands supported her lean upper body. "Sei-sama." She bowed, but she was interrupted. Her respects were not recognized by her sempai.

Satou Sei did not waste any time, "What do you want with Fukuzawa-san?"

"I beg your pardon?"

She was not moved by Sachiko's invented ignorance. "You might have heard the news. Her painting was stolen, thanks very much. Now, she's been receiving guests. How charming. When would be the next visit; when you see in the news that she's dead?"

Sachiko felt her sempai's antagonism towards her, even though she had no idea what caused Sei to be hostile. Yet, in annoyance to the sempai's last bold statement, she gritted, "What a very rude assumption for a very much alive person."

"Only _I_ can assume that. What about you, have you seen her in a near-death state?"

_Lying bitches such as you killed her._

"I . . ." Sei's words suddenly blocked Sachiko's train of thought.

"I thought so. Why now? Why not ages ago?" Sei demanded loathingly. She could not even try to diverge her eyes from the raven-haired lady, who was clearly taken off-guard with Sei's succession of questions. The rest of the visitors seemed not to be hearing them. She decided that Sei evidently knew something of their personal past. From the senior's tone of voice, she had an unambiguous picture of every detail that happened. The problem was when did she learn about it? Still Sei continued, "Did you think that Fukuzawa-kun will let herself be found so weak and helpless? What a strange assumption of mine . . . thinking that you used this kind of situation to lure her again. But the question is: did you succeed?"

She tried to find an avenue to avoid those questions; therefore, she proceeded with another tactic. "Why should I not visit my petite soeur?"

Sei stood up from where she sat, walked in front of Sachiko to invade most of her personal space as she whispered, "Haven't you noticed? She no longer considers you as her onee-sama. I've seen so many kinds of relationship between Lillian soeurs, but yours and Fukuzawa's is unique."

"What do you mean?"

"How does it feel . . . to wrap your arms around the heat of an old flame?" Sei rhetorically dramatized her words, shocking not only Sachiko, but a few random persons lurking along the Nihonga section near them. "That's not how normal soeur sisters feel."

When did she learn that? From Yumi? "Then, what are you now, her new Onee-sama?"

She snuffled against Sachiko's face, "I don't even dare wish it." She then took steps back away from Sachiko. Sei's eyes drifted quickly to Yumi's painting then to her adversary. "Gokigenyou. Enjoy the view."

After Sei left her, she could not tell how long she had been standing in front of _The Deformed_. She was particularly vexed after talking to Sei. Sei's presence and words just dabbed salt to the wound that still not healing. She looked at the painting, trying not to burst to tears. She stood there, trying to decipher the meaning behind Sei's actions. She was repeatedly eying the painting as she talked to Sachiko, as if some sort of a message had been vandalized upon it.

Yumi's work was hanging by the wall, depicting an old woman wearing a very old, tattered kimono, trying to walk along an empty sidewalk. She frail back was crouched in a very acute angle, and one of the sleeves of the kimono seemed empty. However, a little child was holding one of her hands, leading the way. However, the child was leading them in darker vicinity, while at the bent back of the old lady scattered light.

Then she shook her head. Cryptic and cruel as Satou Sei may be, she would not be dissuaded in seeing Yumi once more.

She had fought the times that she wanted to see Yumi again. It was for the best, for her and for the painter, yet for the last years, she schemed to see her little sister. She needed her forgiveness. She wanted to personally ask her if she were doing fine. She wanted Yumi to be a part of her life once more, just like the old high school years. Yet, Yumi did not want her anymore.

Her legs then began to buck as pain seeped from her calves to her knees. She could not find her way to go back home; she did not want to see anyone from the office, from her family, and even her husband. He would surely know it. The sudden desire of looking once more outside the impossibilities. The thought of going to the dark side of the frame, attended by an unknown and naïve child, trusting her with all her strength, as she struggled to walk even though her back was aching. Even though she knew that, she was lacking, like she lost an arm. Like that woman in the painting.

She looked at her watch. It was time for her to depart. She looked yet again to the old woman's expression—she could not interpret it. She then turned around to find her way outside the gallery when she saw a man was sitting on the same spot where Sachiko had found Sei.

The man said, "She had no choice. She knew where they were going, but the child was eager to proceed. In conclusion, she's ready to meet her doom." He adjusted his glasses as he explained.

"Fascinating." Sachiko tried to smile.

"Yes, indeed. Fukuzawa's works were very literal upon sight, but painted very contrasting passion of her subjects." He agreed, without looking at her.

"True." She then went outside, unable to prevent her eyes from watering.

* * *

Yoshino sighed as she looked at the transcript of the testimonies of the suspects. "It's no use extracting information from them. All of the members were actually captured. Appears to have an unknown instigator." Acrosss her worktable was Yuuki, who had been reading the same copy of the document.

"Then this investigation has nowhere to go." Yuuki mumbled.

Both dismissed each other's presence to concentrate on their own thoughts. Yuuki, being the police officer had more pressing cases other that her sister's missing painting, but in Yoshino's case, it would be otherwise. She must find the painting for the sake of insurance. It would not be too much of a big deal for him, but instead, he was still finding some sort of an avenue to connect the robbery to something else logical. Did it have to do with her?

It was supposed to be very easy to know everything that was related to the painting and its maker, since she knew Fukuzawa Yumi back from high school years, but even with that advantage, she could not find any opportunity to continue the case. Fukuzawa Yumi had substantial connections in the art world, and they were strictly in respect to the craft itself, not in respect of money. She remained to Musashino, even though she was very welcome to continue her craft in Kyoto, or somewhere else more lucrative. Yet, she stayed here. What good staying here in Musashino would do for her? Would that be because of her few, very intimate friends?

(Yoshino bitterly realized that she was not anymore inside that circle, no matter how small the world they were in.)

She would start with the closest ones. Satou Sei. They were together since high school, and reunited on the end of third year of Yumi's collegian years. Ever since, Satou Sei had never been away from her. She had been some sort of a mentor, particularly after she came back from Kyoto.

Next: Fukuzawa Yuuki. Not at all related to Nihonga world. Almost followed his father's footsteps.

(She tried not to look at the man in front of her, as she read his profile. God knows where her associates found this data.)

Another: Matsudaira Touko. Not at all related to the art world. A medical student. Not once had visited the gallery for personal correspondence. (Must have been visiting Yumi's flat.) Never disclosed information about her grande souer.

Next: Her boss. Yumi has been recommended by Satou Sei to have her first exhibit at the gallery itself. Had his eyes on Yumi's potential ever since Yumi was a college art student. Somehow, she put up with Yumi, and granted her several commissions on restoration ever since. The owner of the gallery. Could not convince Fukuzawa to sell her paintings. (Must have been keeping her for her talent.)

One more: Hinomura Takuya. Yumi's old mentor at Kyoto. A professor and a Nihonga painter. She stayed with him as an apprentice for a year for her thesis. Also helped her to register several major and minor subjects at a university at Kyoto to continue her studies, which were accredited at Lillian University.

But most of her associates had little relation to the painting. She must have a talk with them. Sei-sama is easy to find but hard to talk to; Yuuki is easy to find and easy to talk to, as it was with his girlfriend; But with the last two, she was not sure.

She had that painting shown to the public at her second exhibition. Only that. Then, it was loaned to the gallery.

Yumi was known for her mastery at Modern Nihonga, and was infamous at the University for her dual-option in her art major—she pursued a thesis option apart from the general exhibition that most students had chosen. Somehow, she graduated on time. Known to her sempai's and kouhai's as open, cheerful, and honest. Recognized by professors and few institutions as a true genius in modern Nihonga, as soon as she took it as a major. Quite accomplished, even at an early career.

Looking at the detective, she asked very decidedly, "That painting . . . what is it to her?"

Yuuki looked at her with a bleak smile.

Yet, amidst the list of the people Yumi had been significally associated with, why is it that Ogasawara Sachiko, Yumi's beloved onee-sama, was not among them? Was unrequited love inevitably hurt Fukuzawa Yumi that much to the point of never seeing her again?

* * *

Satou Sei looked at him with surprise as she scanned the documents upon her hands. The look at her boss' face was very enthusiastic in accepting this kind of offer.

Sei was sitting down in one of the office's long couches, hardly looking at the person beside her. She had met this person just this day, and tried to hide her discomfort. She smiled widely as she shifted upon the sofa. Since the boss had other visitors inside the room, she would not generally force her objection to her boss' orders; some of the gallery's benefactors, in their impeccable attire and imposing bearing, were inside the room, and had wildly supported the proposal that was given to Sei.

"Is this final?" Sei asked.

"Yes. Soon as she'd finish the last commission you gave to her, she would be proceeding in restoring those paintings. Besides, it would only be just the proper procedure before the paintings would be displayed to the public. Even though she'd just sweeping dust or anything superficial. Still, those paintings are a great deal for the gallery. It's a win-win situation."

Then their employer looked at her, "So, please tell Fukuzawa-kun about it."

"Does she have a choice?"

"Satou Sei-kun."

"Yeah, yeah. Sure."

The boss beamed. "I expect a positive answer as soon as possible. Well then, Satou-kun, off you go."

She stood up, bowed down to the benefactors and to her boss, and strode off the room with the documents in tow. With the new commission, things would get busy for her junior. Week after week of restoring several artworks were very monotonous (as Yumi commented about it), but she was contented with that, given that she was not busy with her own works. Two years have passed and not a single painting was finished.

She might even forget about that lost painting for a while. But how can she _forget_?

Well, at least she had more restoring to do than to wait for her muse to join her in her studio. Or anyplace that Yumi would visit. Whenever she asked the painter why she had been no finished painting from her, she would just say, "Nothing worthy to paint."

(What a petty excuse.)

The boss demanded that she'd tell Yumi of the new commission, but does it have to be now? She had so many things to do, like visit an old friend. Or get drunk again.

She walked along long lines of paintings. Life could be as simple as walking down the same colored path. She spent almost an hour just loitering around the museum. When she was about passing at the Nihonga section, she had the mood again to look at Yumi's paintings. When she was about to enter the wing, she saw Kashiwagi just took a step into her field of vision, and sat down at the same bench in front of _The Deformed._

Sei proceeded on walking and greeted the gallery's sponsor. "Kashiwagi-sama,"

"Satou-san, would you mind?"

"No, not at all. I rather watch it while standing."

"Very well."

Both gazed at the painting. Then Sei spoke, "Those paintings must have a very great deal to you."

"Of course. I would not let anyone touch them that easily."

"So it would seem."

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N:** This is the first time Kashiwagi and Yumi met. In this AU, Suguru rarely and insignificantly appeared during Yumi and Sachiko's highschool days.

This chapter seemed to be filler, before I give a more relevant chapter next time. I hope I did not bore you with this one. It was _really hard_ getting into Sachiko's character—the fact that she's almost perfect. Her character in the canon is what we call the true character development. It was even hard to extract emotions from her, without sounding so cliché and repetitive. _Please_ let me know if I pulled her off beyond the usual character. I'm dying to read a reaction with this one.

Thank you for those who read, support and comment about this story! I hope I'm still keeping your curiosity after you read chapter by chapter. I hope I could read your opinions about the development of the story. Thanks!


	5. Chapter 5

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_I remembered the one of the days that my mother came with me to preparatory school. It was also the first time that we would be separated from each other. We did not travel with the family car; we commuted. My father was so furious that he scolded her grittily, and without remorse. I was watching his rage that I felt sick. It was also the first time that I rode in a mode of transportation where all people from all walks of life meet. I remember her bringing me to the females-only area of the train. But before that, she held me tightly, as if more afraid of the rest of the open world as the cramped compartment of that part of the train._

_With her holding me tightly by the hands, I felt vulnerable and dependent of her. _

_Most people who would have known this might think that I had some a strange case of complex for my mother that I could not get away behind her skirt. The truth was that, it was the first time that I felt dependent. It was also the time that I felt that my existence had been important to someone. I felt her sentiment—that she needed me too, that even though I happened to be a mistake of the past, she did not abandon me. I was not what my father expected. But she had been there, no matter the circumstances. _

_She was the only person holding my hand. Only she had been there always. For me, I knew that I'm alive because of her. _

_She was taken away from me—she was gone._

_Then I saw the painting. How very interesting that I remember vividly that piece of memory the moment I saw it._

* * *

CHAPTER 5:

* * *

Yumi locked the door of her office that night; few days after Touma Sachiko visited her. Upon her one arm were her black leather jacket and her backpack full of art supplies, while at the other were her set of keys of the gallery. She had full access to her workplace, since she was among several young artists who have been staying for allnighters ever since she was hired to do commissions there.

It was already an hour after the dead midnight. She had walked the same path to the parking lot, where her motorcycle had been parked. She got her helmet from a locker at one of the security guard's posts and proceeded to her ride. All the while, all she thought of was the woman that left the museum few days ago, harboring a bitter farewell from Yumi's incorrigible mouth.

She thought that she already had forgotten everything that happened between them, but as time passed by with her former Onee-sama, she felt like her x-acto was beginning to slice the thin lining of her indifference surrounding her heart, just to expose it to bleed and gush out in deluge. She thought she was beginning to win her own battle against Touma Sachiko, but as she remembered what she had said to the heiress, she began to loose her composure.

She kicked, and motioned for the security to open the gates for her to pass. Once her way was cleared, her motorcycle began to roar like a wounded lion.

The painter hated herself that she was defeated at the sight of her once lover. Her mind was clouded with thoughts of Sachiko during their college years, a vibrant woman who had made her forget the rest of the world, and the woman who had been her muse. Before and after everything happened.

She was her muse when Yumi was drowning in the pit of love, savoring the taste of contentment. She was her muse when Yumi was tearing her heart out because of rejection and depreciation. She was the reason she wanted to leave for Kyoto. She was the reason the painter had been successful since the start of her career. Every movement of her brushes, every stroke, and its corresponding message was substantially dedicated for her to move on.

Yumi knew about this fact. She used her anger as a stepping-stone for her career. But even though she said those words to here with overflowing arrogance, she felt her heart implode whenever she remembered.

_Lying bitches such as you killed her._

She felt as if she was saying this to herself.

(Bitch _please_ . . .)

She repeatedly was saying that she needed not to change. She told herself a million times. But as she met new people, she was not sure when to open up. Her heart was fixed not to trust anyone easily. It was less complicated and more secured. Her distrust surfaced upon her like a natural skin.

But not Sachiko, who had known her when she used to be transparent and gullible.

She never realized that she was already near her apartment when she decided to drink herself to stupor. She grunted as she stepped on the clutch of her bike. She settled that it was best to try to sleep in the comforts of her bed than to get drunk and find herself dozing off at a table of a bar.

She opened the door and found her apartment flashing out the definition of a traditional Japanese-style room. She deposited her paint-covered shoes, placed them neatly at the _genkan_, and replaced them with _uwabaki _slippers. As she looked upon her apartment, she thought that she was having a crisis of her etiquette and hygiene. The first impression of anyone that came to her office was that she was a boor, having such a scatter that even a normal Japanese slacker could not fathom, but at home, she was different.

Everything was considered clean and arranged.

She scowled at her inconsistency.

Then, she looked back at the _genkan_, finding a pair of brown boots nestling at the opposite corner of the entrance foyer. She sighed and grinned. Why did she not see it before?

_Sei._

* * *

_Six years ago_

Clad in a black jacket, simple button-down shirt and khakis, Yumi cast her eyes at the little lake at the _Ginkaku-ji, _or the "Temple of the Silver Pavilion," as she walked through its hallways. It is one of her occasional visits at the Shintoist and Buddhist temples during the length of her stay here in Kyoto, for her undergraduate thesis, which was a separate project from senior-level exhibition. She had been busy ever since her third year at university; therefore, her time here inside a very well known Buddhist landmark in Kyoto was a break from work. Although this destination was frequently visited because of research (and to spark inspiration for her exhibit), she was very much convinced this small tour would unwind herself. Just to see the pavilion and its nearby gardens was enough. She was a simple woman, after all, who appreciates simple pleasures such as this. Why not enjoy the peace and quiet here, which happened once in a blue moon? There were so many tourists loitering about the property before that sometimes she could not handle the crowd. She thanked the Buddhist priests for allowing her inside (even in restricted areas) on an unofficial visit.

She strolled along the garden surrounding the Ginkaku-ji and was tempted to stay there all afternoon. The university art student sat beside a tree, after placing a large handkerchief to the ground to protect her bottom from the slightly wet grass bed. She appreciated the narrow trees lining the garden and grateful of its slightly thin shade. The rays of the sun had been gentle these days that she thanked her heart for deciding that she should take a break from academics and work.

She pulled out the restraint of her ponytail to let her head rest comfortably at the trunk of the tree.

She felt as if that for the first time after she left for Kyoto that she was truly at peace. (Then, she remembered that she have to get some souvenir for her _sensei_ when she go back.)

Her eyes began to feel the heat of the sun, the rays inducing her eyes to close. She felt her whole body relax as she leaned her head to the trunk of the tree. For a few moments she dozed off, unaware of her surroundings. She trusted the place to protect her.

When she woke up, her vision was blurry, but she could see a short blond hair and luminous gray eyes gawking at her. For a moment she hesitated to speak, but with her head a little unfocused, she squealed. Then, she blurted out the first thing—no, person that she had in mind, "S—Sei-sama?"

Indeed, Yumi was right at her assumption; it was Sei, whose face was almost touching Yumi's, as if she was about to kiss a sleeping princess from her slumber. "Too bad, you woke up before I could smooch you to death." Sei said in an undertone.

"Huh?" Still, Yumi's brainpower was still loading. "What are you doing here, Sei-sama?"

For a moment, Sei looked at the view of the temple before her. She said in a more displaced manner, "Whenever I go so far away a place, you never fail to meet me along the way."

Yumi tried to decipher Sei's words but, "Sempai, I don't think I understand what you said."

"It doesn't matter. What matter's that I could keep you for myself today, without anyone distracting us." Sei grinned impishly. "I am here in Kyoto for business, but then my work has been finished earlier than I expected. So, here I am, marveling the silver overlay of the pavilion, with you on my side. I just happened to bump on you. Is my explanation good enough?"

"Accidental meetings such as this really do happen, huh." Yumi mumbled to herself.

They spent the whole afternoon in the garden, just catching up with each other; Yumi asked about Sei's work, while the latter inquired about the progress of Yumi's thesis. Even though Yumi's welcome for Sei was quite bland and uneventful (she did not shout in jubilation as she saw the former Rosa Gigantea), they have not seen each other for a long time. Right after Sei graduated from Lillian University, she just vanished from everyone's radar. It was even surprising that Yumi found her inside the country, more specifically in Kyoto; everyone expected her to run about different continents . . . which was quite _Sei-like._

"I always thought you were out of the country." Yumi said.

"I've been in Japan all this time. Little trips here and there, but I always came back. It's just that, I'm not really good at keeping tabs with people. How about you, do you still keep in touch with friends? How's Sachiko? She'll be graduating this academic year, right?"

That made Yumi froze.

"Yumi, what's wrong?"

"Onee-sama . . . I haven't heard from Onee-sama ever since I went here." She muttered in a broken voice.

"I see."

Yumi invited her to her little apartment, a small six-tatami mat room at an annex house of a _ryokan_, wherein the owner was a close friend of her father. They took out food from the _ryokan's_ kitchen, and inside the room, they drenched themselves with _sake._ Sei was becoming wary of Yumi's actions before they went out of the pavilion; she had a very good idea of the reason of Yumi's distress.

Over a nearly empty a large bottle of _sake, _she asked Yumi, "Are you and Sachiko-chan in good terms?"

Yumi, who was flustered deep red because of the drink, looked at her senior, trying to brush off her uneasiness. She tried to laugh, struggling to convince herself and the woman in front of her. "Yes . . . yes, we are."

"Well—"

Sei's words were interrupted. Then, she found her face doused in tears. "We . . . were. We barely see each other since Christmas Eve. Do you know that we broke up?" Yumi was surprised that she revealed that information. No one should know. But she could not hide anything from Sei. She laughed at her stupidity. "She . . . she broke up with me. I was to be transferred here for the third trimester, and before I could tell her that I have accepted, she broke up with me."

"I'm sorry . . . you and Sachiko . . .?"

She raised both her hands trying to clear out her words, "No one was supposed to know it!_ No one._ We would have told them . . ."

Then, Sei began to interrupt by holding both Yumi's shoulders to quiet her down. Yumi stopped shortly, looking at the senior in confusion. Sei's eyes were very deadly serious, her brows almost meeting, her eyes like slits, her mouth upside down. "Listen to me, Yumi. Listen very carefully: have you received an invitation from Sachiko?"

Yumi became more confused. "No, I haven't."

"Did your family ever have an invitation from her?"

"Not that I know of . . . if there was one, then Yuuki should have forwarded it to me."

Sei gulped and reached for the younger girl's back abruptly, and embraced her fiercely. She felt Sei's hand on her head, forcing her to lay it on her shoulders. She tried to buckle, but the blonde did not allow her. "Yumi . . . I'm afraid of letting you know this. She sent me an invitation for a wedding. She's going to be married on April."

Yumi's heart began to ache, as if a major vessel just exploded. Her breathing became snappy. "No—no way. No, that . . . that can't be true."

Sei's squeeze became more asphyxiating. Yumi began to cry, "It's all coming to me . . . she did . . . she betrayed me."

She cried violently for a long time; Sei just held her in her arms, trying to console and to comfort her, without saying a word. It was so difficult not to react on Yumi's dejection because she knew nothing of their relationship. If ever they were together for a long time, Sei did not notice it during her stay at Lillian U. When Yumi calmed down, Sei put her hands at the sides of her face. She looked at Yumi's puffed and reddened eyes, her flushed cheeks and nose, the corners of her mouth wet with mixed saliva and tears. Sei reached her pocket for a handkerchief and wiped Yumi's cheeks. Later, she gave it to her, who emptied her clogged nose with it.

Drunk and miserable, Yumi looked at Sei. She tried to kiss her sempai, thus planting her red lips to Sei's pale ones. The former White Rose was surprised that she could not even move; her mind was screaming in objection to Yumi's sudden boldness. She withdrew her lips from her kouhai, yet, Yumi still attacked, pushing her down against the tatami mat.

Even without wailing, Yumi's tears still flowed freely from her eyes; large, salty drops splattering on Sei's cheeks and lips.

It happened while the sliding door of her six-tatami mat room slammed open. It revealed a very weary Yuuki, who was holding a red envelope on his right hand and still wearing his travel jacket.

He was obviously exhausted from running.

* * *

_Present Day_

"Ouch, godda—"

"Please, not in front of the table." Yumi absently drawled.

"Yeah, right."

Sei hurt her finger as she tried to unlid the pot containing hot ramen. They were just starting to eat late dinner, and found Sei wasting all her food reserves upon her refrigerator. Including the vodka that was supposedly carefully hidden somewhere in the house. Sei being near to one bottle would not be better for the both of them; therefore, Yumi herself put away the liquor just to prevent Sei from taking advantage of her.

Of Yumi's place, of course. She knew that Yumi would definitely take care of her even though she was vomiting all over the tatami mat. But the senior had a different reason why she barged into her home without permission and warning—it was to inform Yumi of her new commission.

"Itadakimasu." The both declared.

"What's new?"

Sei was trying to act all cool, but she could not help but to relinquish her superiority over Yumi. She had allowed the junior to be almost as equal as her, but ever since it was stolen, Yumi acted worse than before—she was not that anxious in finding that painting. Sei then tried, "You seem to be not that problematic about your lost stuff."

Sei noticed that Yumi kept on picking on a certain vegetable from the steaming pot. She said gloomily, "That would be incorrect."

"I'm sorry." She knew that the painter had suddenly crumbled her defenses for Sei. "You know that you don't have to be all bitchy around me. I'm harmless."

Her little painter sufficed a small smile. Sei could sense that Yumi was not only worried of the painting, but also for Touma Sachiko that had visited her a few days ago. It was very satirical that after the painting was stolen, Sachiko appeared in their lives once more. Sei had a very good idea of the reason the painting was realized into canvas and paint—it was a proof of Yumi's struggle. It was some sort of a charm—a warning for her not to be trapped to the same pit again.

"Well, I have something that you might be interested." Sei said as she chewed beef.

"New commission?" Yumi replied lazily.

"A bigger commission. It requires time and effort. Particularly _effort_. You'd know the details later and the paintings to restore. But for starters, you know, Kashiwagi Suguru went to the boss looking for someone to restore Nihonga paintings for him. All I know is that he owns some of the treasured paintings of the pre-war and post-war. Exciting, isn't it?"

Yumi was now playing with her food at her plate. "That man?"

"You've met him, right?"

It was more like Sei had been interrupting her daydreams. Yumi replied in a more detached manner. "Yeah. But only brief, the same day Sachiko had visited me."

Sei almost broke her chopsticks as she heard the name from Yumi's mouth. Then, she found Yumi getting contents from the pot much more than before. As she played with them, she said breathlessly, trying to laugh despite herself, "It's suddenly coming into me—the loss of it—I'm afraid that I will not see it again. You convinced me to at least loan it to the gallery, and now, it's gone."

* * *

Detective Fukuzawa Yuuki was shuffling along the list of bidders at every auction the gallery had been organizing ever since her sister's debut. He tried to removed bidders who were only interested in western painting—the impressionism, post-impressionism, minimalism, pop-art, cubism, etcetera. He was only interested in modern Nihonga. It seemed that several bidders were mostly foreigners.

He reviewed her sister's profile—she just had two exhibitions in the same gallery since she left the university, until three years ago, when she changed her medium. Ever since all she did was to restore paintings of various media and from different visual art movements. Three years of big commissions for restoration. Usually signed the prints of her paintings for avid fans and collectors, and their prices reached over 500 thousand yen. The gallery where she worked is a non art-target one. Somehow, she never was poor.

Nothing was to be extracted from the Southeast Asian suspects who were still inside the confines of the police department of Musashino. According to Shimazu-san, they intended to steal different artworks in that wing. But the testimonies were not that simple, neither fully consistent. But there were things that were the same for all statements: the one who stole the painting was not one of them. They were paid to steal, and were given very precise directions about the heist—the clockworks, gadgets, utility, logistics—everything.

Somewhere now, a troubled mastermind, who ordered these men, had been very displeased of the failure. Based from the investigation, there were two custom-made smoke bombs and an attache case having titanium alloy blocks at the crime scene—therefore, this guy, whoever he might be, was double-crossed by someone else who knew his plans. He took advantage of the men's failure to deliver, and took a painting. But then, was he just waiting for them to fail? What if they succeeded; would he withdraw his plans?

Someone pilfered the artwork not because of money. Then, who would be daring enough to play such a game and spend too much on skilled men . . . ?

Was this just a game?

This fact had been repeatedly running inside his head for few days now. Still, a 500 million-yen painting (rumored to be its price when a Modern Nihonga art collector tried to convince the painter to sell it) was a good commodity to be just sold in black market, or be kept in a secret basement. Yoshino would be so happy if it'd be found. She'd be given the five percent of the insurance.

He looked at the list of Nihonga paintings auctioned in the last four years. These lists would not even help them in their investigation.

If they were after the money, then they should have pilfered those that have more value than Yumi's, and should have taken more paintings as time would allow. But why one painting? Why Yumi's work? Still, who are those people who are so very interested in Fukazawa paintings to the point of stealing them?

"It's not about the money." Yoshino said.

* * *

One thing that she did not expect out of her presence during the investigation was her extended service for the museum's almost-virtual patron: Kashiwagi Suguru. She got a call from a very-pissed Sei that their boss wanted her to tour the young man to the gallery, since the business executive had been extending his support three years since. He rarely visited.

"You've visited only twice. But then, you've been a generous benefactor for three years. This doesn't add up." Yumi said as she and Kashiwagi sat down upon a long bench, facing one of Yumi's paintings.

They had been strolling down the halls of the first floor for an hour. Yumi had been explaining everything for Kashiwagi-san's enlightenment—the history of the piece of art, the movement it belonged, etcetera, etcetera. Today was one of the very few moments that her boss demanded her go outside her workshop to do some trifling task for someone. She seldom went outside to present herself before the curious spectator and give her lectures about traditional Japanese painting.

And from what she discerned from the experience, Kashiwagi had known his art and its history. He did not need any further appreciation; he knew every single piece of work displayed. And as infuriating as it was—she was there not to teach him what he did not know, but to be his conversation-buddy. In other words, she was trying not to get him bored. She was challenged by his thorough knowledge in her own turf, as if he's been with her in the museum, had done all her stuff, had shared the same experience all along.

Fucking annoying. (She thought that all of his knowledge about the craft was not based from experiences, but based on what he heard.)

They were sitting in front of _The Deformed._

Yumi could not hide her irritation; therefore, she thought that if she could crack this man up, she might be given a leeway to stop forcing herself from entertaining this guy. "You're our sponsor yet you rarely visited the gallery. I did not even know you, until now. You should have not removed me from my work just to tour you."

He just answered her with a smile on his face. "I would not be one of the sponsors of this excellent gallery if I don't know what I've been investing for." He smirked at her.

She smirked back. She continued, "I heard from my senior that you have some Nohonga paintings that the boss are interested to be presented here in the gallery."

Kashiwagi turned his head and remained looking at the painting. "Yes, I do. I was informed that you already agreed to be part of the project."

"Satou Sei-san told me about them. Pre-war and post-war, as she had called it in layman's terms. But she never mentioned _titles_. _Medium_. _Painters_. I could almost imagine that they're from suspicious sources to be much concealed by you." She censured.

Kashiwagi made no reaction.

The last statement was supposedly a joke. Yet, as she looked at the man's face, she discerned that he was not giving a single shit about it. "I see." Yumi pondered.

* * *

_A week later_

Yumi submitted to the boss the painting that she was previously restoring. Yet, she just presented it via Sei, and did not meet her colleagues, scholars, and the painting's benefactors when its restored quality was deliberated, even though Sei warned her to attend. Consequently, Sei did the rest of explaining.

She said that she had not slept for several days. She had no time for the report.

Yumi owed her big-time. (That scumbag of a brat.)

It was a good thing that it was praised for her achievement in the accuracy of her copying the original painter's style. Restoring a Meiji painting was very delicate job to do, give its medium, styles, the period it was painted, and its price. It was a seven foot-long _fusuma_ painting, color on paper. Given the delicacy of the medium, the boss was much impressed at Fukuzawa, who admitted once that the commission of that kind was her first. As much as Sei wanted to straighten Yumi's direction, she could not watch her all the time and control her life. Hearing this from Sei's mouth would be surprising, but Yumi should have the discretion when and where to act like an assclown or not. With her abnormal habits, she wondered how Yumi was not having major breakdowns. Artists could handle less sleep and food, but with her, she began to think of the supernatural. Her talent was one thing almost indispensable, but with so young an age and few outputs, anyone could replace her.

_The Passing Wind _had been the celebrated painting since its first exhibition, but having no finished product in the last two years is not very good for her career. Maybe, she could restore paintings forever, but her talents would not be wasted only on _that_. She needed to find something—anything that could inspire her.

Even though that inspiration would be somebody that Yumi would not want to see for the rest of her life. Somehow, she just needed to face her demons.

* * *

"Master, all paintings were already acquired and are now being delivered to Kyoto as we speak."

"Thank you, Shimata-san." Kashiwagi said to his old butler. "Be sure that they will be delivered at Kinomoto's house."

"Very well, sir."

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

_Fusuma – _sliding door

**A/N:** Thank you for the reading this chapter! I really am grateful, especially to those who voice their thoughts by dropping a review. I'm sorry I'm unable to reply quickly to the comments, but I'll try to drop a note for those questions that were not explained by this chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

**THE PASSING WIND**

-_TheSilentReader-_

* * *

CHAPTER 6:

* * *

_Kyoto_. She paled at the mention of the place.

He was at her office to discuss the minor details about the restoration of several paintings that Kashiwagi Suguru owned—and all of them will not leave the premises of Kashiwagi's property at Kyoto. She would be staying there, finishing the commission to a place that she wanted to forget.

It used to be a place of refuge for her, the place where she had learned the culture and history of her craft from a master himself. But she considered that part of her experience to be one of the worst occurrences that shaped up her career as an artist and as a Nihonga painter. She knew that when she stepped away from Musashino, she was bound to remember everything that she tried to forget.

_Kyoto_.

"Where in Kyoto are we going?" She asked bravely, despite her nerves. She was pleading to all saints . . . .

Kashiwagi raised a brow at the question. "I'm afraid that I cannot disclose that kind of information until we reach there."

Yumi swore under her breath. Having this kind of commission away from home was beginning to seep into her brain as a very wrong idea. She knew that this man could not be trusted at all, given the nature of the paintings that he was asking to be restored. What enchantment did he tell her boss to accept this kind of work? Surely, if her boss knew that the pieces of artwork were from somewhere suspicious, who knows what evil had been attached to the paintings?

Why Kyoto? Why not here?

She asked those same questions to the man in front of him, who was standing near the door of her workshop. It would not be wise to question a benefactor just like that, but she did not care—she was the one assigned to restore them—surely, she had the privilege to question the man about these matters. But, goddamn it—she asked those impertinent questions to get away with the idea of going back there. Maybe, if she could negotiate—

"It is where those paintings originally reside. That is all I need to tell you. Those paintings would only visit Musashino and stay here after all of them were restored. Your superiors and I have negotiated its staying at the gallery for a month, and after that, it will be forever be residing at Kyoto." Kashiwagi's voice was now formal, distant, and blunt. "That was the only thing that I need to tell you, before we travel two days hence. My butler will personally fetch you at your house at seven o'clock in the evening."

Then, he bowed, and immediately left her studio.

Having that warning would mean that she needed to clean the studio to bring her art materials to Kyoto as instructed by the benefactor himself. She flinched at the memory of his commands. She thanked the gods for being insightful after she finished her last commission; she cleaned most of her brushes and arranged tubes of her acrylic and oil paints. She sorted out her all other materials—the graphites, charcoals, lenses, kneading erasers, brushes, and x-acto knives—and placed them to their own plastic boxes.

The ones left were her unfinished canvasses, facing upon the four walls of her studio. They were too many of them, gathering dusts.

She gathered her courage, threw away her pride just to get near of those incomplete businesses, and looked at them again. Of the years of her career, only thirty of her paintings were given chance to be exhibited in the gallery. Fifteen each for every exhibition—the first one lasted for almost a month in display, while the second lasted for three months. Since then, nothing had been made originally by her. Everything she did with the brushes was for restoration. She had no product since she change her medium.

She picked one random canvas and looked at it. Three-fourths of the canvas was finished. She picked another one—half of it was already painted with oil. She picked another, then another, upturning it, inspecting the unfinished product, trying to remember the image each of them was trying to show. She tried to remember her emotions as she painted them. Then, she stupidly asked herself: what the fuck is wrong with oil?

She vividly remembered every emotion that she had when she painted all thirty of her works—pain, sorrow, loss, resentment, deception, and revenge—those were her motivation to continue finishing her works, particulartly _The Passing Wind._ All she thought about were her eternal discord for Hinomura, and her fruitless love for Ogasawara Sachiko. Anger made that piece so alive, so captivating. She marvelled at her own work.

_Fuck. _And not only that her most prized painting was missing, she was going back to Kyoto. _I want to die._

Then, a knock on the door was heard. She did not bother responding. She placed the old canvasses facing the wall. The door opened but the person holding it was not even announcing herself. Yumi then answered first without looking at the door, "Identify yourself please, Anonymous-san." She bantered easily, without removing her eyes and attention from the canvasses she surveyed a while ago.

"Yumi,"

She stiffened upon her feet. When she looked at the person upon the door, she saw Sachiko. Yumi was astonished, but kept on arranging the canvasses and faced them to the wall. After she was done, she stood up in an unceremonious manner, and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her faded jeans. "Sachiko." She walked to the sole couch at her workshop and sat down. When Sachiko was recognized, she stepped inside the room and closed the door. "What brings you here? The gallery's open hours passed already yet you managed to get in."

It was already nine o'clock in the evening. "But I won't be surprised if you presented your family's name to the security. Such underhanded tactic."

Sachiko glared at her former petite soeur, "I did not come here to be insulted, Yumi."

Yumi stood up from her couch and said, "Then, Ice Princess, state your business." Yumi's hand was pulled off her pocket and waved her hands as she mentioned Sachiko's old Lillian title.

Sachiko then motioned for the paintings that were at the walls. Yumi tried her best not to flinch as she touched the canvasses one by one. Then, she removed her hands from the canvasses and said, "I came here to see you."

The reply was immediate. "I don't want to see you."

"I know."

"Then I don't see the point of you visiting me."

Sachiko took few steps to be in front of Yumi, who was boring her eyes to the former like an angered snake. Yumi, however, was scowling in her mind because of her insipid fascination for coincidence; she was not surprised. One moment she was just thinking of how Ogasawara Sachiko had been the grand inspiration for her paintings and the dartboard for her anger, and then not a moment later she found Sachiko at her door, ready to ignite her anger once more.

First, there was Kashiwagi. Next was Sachiko. The third one would be a curse indeed.

Yet, her thoughts were distracted when Sachiko took too much of her personal space as she stood in front of her. Yumi tried not to recoil away from her former lover, as she endured the urge to get her hands onto the senior and punch her lights out. She wished desperately that she should have done it, but her heart began to weaken as she almost felt the heat emanating from Sachiko. She cursed herself for being so weak—she could not even be immune to Sachiko's charm after all this time.

In defence for her dignity, she smirked. "Well?"

Sachiko took a step back and said, "I came to talk."

Yumi sniffed as she looked for something to do inside her now clean workshop. (Where is work when you dreadfully want it the most?) She pulled out her backpack and checked the contents inside. "About what?"

"About the past."

"Th-the past?" Yumi choked at her own surprise, and laughed sardonically. "I could always imagine our meetings would be like this—you know, the atmostphere so dense, you wanting to explain what happened in the past, me trying to be as civil to you as possible—it's like we're inside an overly dramatic soap opera!" She struggled to wind down her laughter and sat down the sofa. She covered her mouth as she trembled, foolish thoughts invading her mind. Sachiko just looked at Yumi laughing at her but when she attempted to interfere, Yumi's mirth shut off, like a lightbulb—in a snap of a finger.

Yumi clenched as words began flowing from her mouth. "Sachiko, what are your intentions, really?"

Sachiko looked at the mess, and tried not to show her reaction to the person in front of her. She could not move from her post. Then she heard Yumi talking, "One thing you expect from us artists is our disorderliness. Or are you still annoyed of that fact?"

She continued, "I'll be leaving for Kyoto in two days. Even though my painting is still missing, I could not just lie on my bed and mope, true? Yuuki and the others can go apeshit for finding it. There are plenty of things to ponder on, to do. Too bad that I won't have Sei's company there." She made sure that cans of paints were properly lidded. She arranged documents and dumped them above a lightbox. She threw empty tubes of paints to the trash bin at the corner of the workshop, like freethrows in basketball. One by one, she shot the tubes away.

She knew that she was annoying Sachiko to the point of fury. As a true lady, old habits die hard.

Yet, she found it surprising that her visitor was not speaking a word. _Didn't I ask her a question a while ago?_ She continued talking, "So you won't expect me here for a long time. And I don't expect you, either. Since your piehole is incapable in answering my questions, I guess your visit served no purpose, right?"

She scanned the room, and then decided that she had cleaned as she could before leaving her workshop. Then, she got her jacket and bag from a stool, and fastened the latter on her back. Still, Sachiko was unable to talk, just standing there near the doorway.

"I'm going out." She shut off the lights. "Or do you want to stay here?"

"I intend to settle our disagreement." Sachiko cried bleakly. "After all this time, I couldn't gather courage to come to you. For a long time . . ."

Yumi decided not to hear the rest of her speech. She walked outside the room; Sachiko followed. She put her keys to her pocket after she locked the door of her office and workshop. Outside the room was a dark-filled hallway. Sachiko continued her incoherent, even broken speech. ". . . are you listening, Yumi?"

(It's too late. It's too late. It's too late.)

The painter dropped her jacket.

Yumi moved lithely closer to Sachiko. She reached for the woman's midriff then snaked her one hand from her stomach and gently to the small of her back, as her other hand scoped from the side of Sachiko's neck up to her cheek. Yumi gathered her closely to her body—both of them reminded of the past: each other's warmth, smell, touch. Sachiko could not even move from where she stood; she could not even move a muscle as Yumi's breath began to tickle the skin of her cheek, ears, and neck. She shivered as Yumi began to sigh at her ear.

Sachiko trembled as she felt Yumi's tongue grazing gently the lobe of her ear. She could not resist against the painter's actions as much as she violently wanted to. She knew that she was now being exploited—her pride as a woman was beginning to blur, to diminish as she felt herself being pinned to the wall. The hallway leading to Yumi's office was dim and without light. Her thoughts began to roam to their days at the university: their secret liaisons, their lies, their stolen intimacy that they kept hidden to everyone around them. Yet, the building ache to respond to Yumi was beginning to crawl to Sachiko. She raised her arms and began to envelop Yumi and meet Yumi's lips with hers. . . .

"Sachiko, you really don't understand, do you?" Yumi whispered lowly to her ear. Sachiko's arms stopped moving.

Yumi moved her head away to look at Sachiko's face as she continued to talk, "If you're expecting that our meetings would be like what you anticipated just now . . . like this, you expect none."

Sachiko's mouth suddenly became dry.

"You must have thought of this possibility—being in my arms—when you try to surprise me with your visits. You know, I'm afraid to tell you that you are very easily persuaded, Sachiko. I just touched you so slowly and gently, but you did not retaliate." Then, Yumi's half-mooned eyes began stared at her. Sachiko began to see a smirk that could almost resemble the devil's.

Then, the painter moved away from the heiress, and stepped away from her and the wall, boring her eyes to the astounded Sachiko. "At that moment, have you ever thought of your husband? Of what would he think of you?" Yumi shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans as she spoke slowly and clearly. "You hate men as a consequence of your father and grandfather's infidelity. What do you think if I told you that you were about to cheat on your good husband? What if he told you that you're just like _them_?"

A sound of a slap emanated upon the empty and dim hallway.

"Yumi!" Anger rose from Sachiko's chest, blocking her throat. As much as she hated to be affected by Yumi's accusations, she tried not to let tears flow down from her eyes.

Yumi picked her leather jacket on the floor and swung it to her back. "That should give you a reason not to bother me anymore," she said.

She knew that slap was to come afterwards. She managed not to recoil to Sachiko's attack, but she argued with herself that it was her punishment for saying those things to Sachiko. _Fuck you, _that's what it was about. A verbal torment was much more hurting than the physical one. She walked along the hallway knowing that Sachiko would follow. It was much better that she had done it this way—Sachiko would do nothing but to ponder about that moment. To be anguished of the fact that she was not as free as she used to be.

Yumi was not easy as she used to be.

She knew what Sachiko was thinking. Three years of being with her—that was enough for Yumi to know everything about her. Three years as her equal—their minds, bodies and hearts as one to the point that Yumi could not bear to live without her—gave her the avenue to explore everything that was Ogasawara Sachiko. That knowledge she had engraved to the deepest pit of her flesh and mind.

She almost thought conceitedly once that only she knew Sachiko. No one could ever be as close to her soul—and almost merged into her—as Yumi once did.

But that also gave Sachiko the avenue of knowing her as deeply.

But she's changed now.

She has changed now.

Yumi walked ahead but she felt Sachiko took hurried steps to be beside her as they exited the premises of the gallery. Neither said another word as they rode the elevator leading to the parking area and to their own vehicles.

* * *

Sachiko gripped on the steering wheel too strongly as she drove her back home. "You're wrong, Yumi." She repeated like a mantra. "You're wrong, you're wrong, you're wrong . . ."

She hated the fact Yumi knew her too well.

* * *

She could not even pump out her anger. She could not find any place to vent out. Not in her house; never in her workstation. Sei must not see her like that. Busy bars and pubs would not be suitable for it. Even empty parks did not appeal to her. Her anger would not go away. Once she released everything, she'd be normal again.

Her motorbike was running almost a hundred but still she felt no fear of stopping, or even dying. She laughed hard. Her voice was much louder than the cries of her vehicle, which was shouting in reverie because it was running at its greatest speed. She did not care for the road or for the people watching her along the way—she just laughed.

She was thoroughly amused and angered by all this! She felt like a lunatic, so utterly ecstatic that she did not care for the future! At one lonely lane in the highways of downtown Musashino, while riding her mechanical horse, she raised her both hands in jubilation—to release more of the happiness that she felt to this empty sky!

(How undeniably unlucky she was! How far down could a normal person like her could be in this hellish world! She knew that there were more unfortunate ones than her but still . . . she's going to Kyo-fucking-to! That bitch Sachiko was stalking her! No one as wretched as she would be grounded to situations such as these! How grand that the world is conspiring for her amusement! She won't be bored!)

A celebration should be in order! What could she do? Do utter chaos? She had this black motorbike to blow up!

Because the past was finally catching up to her! The past that she was sure she left behind was finally creeping back! She did nothing for it to come back; she had not killed, she had not broken anyone's heart, she practically did nothing bad, but why did her name belong to the bad kids' list this year?

She laughed harder, finally gripping on the controls of her bike as she took a sharp turn, decreasing its speed to the bare minimum. She won't go home until her mirth die down. Yes, that's what she'd do; if not, she might burn her house down, in search for something to destroy.

She spent hours riding her motorbike, breaking speed limits everywhere.

And her mirth did . . . it did die down.

Yumi's motorcycle stopped in a screaching sound in front of her apartment. Having nothing to break, she pulled out the helmet from her head and smashed it with all her might to the ground.

She swore under her breath. The front shield could not even break. She laughed, and for the first time this night she heard very clearly the crisp of her high-pitched hilarity in this silent neighborhood.

Her entrance was so loud that tenants of the rooms of the second floor of her apartment complex turned on their lights, one of them went out of his door and shout, "What the fuck are you doing! It's goddamn late!"

"I'm sorry!" She said to him.

"It's cool, man. Just keep it down, all right?" Then, he closed the door.

When she opened the door of her apartment, she once again found Sei crashed into her place. Then, Sei smiled, "You calmed down?"

"I don't know . . . I'm so pissed off." She growled tremulously. She felt no inducement to laugh. Nothing was funny anymore. Now, she was just utterly, purely, _pissed off._

* * *

_Nine years ago_

"I love you, too, Yumi."

She was more concerned of securing Sachiko's heart for eternity, not just for moments that they feel like it. Like this one—she felt her blood rising, the intensity of her desire to respond to Sachiko's pleading lips was palpable now with her trembling hands. "Onee-sama, wait," she plead, as she clasped her hands at Sachiko's shirt.

Sachiko stopped. She looked at Yumi with confused eyes.

This was supposed to be a normal high school grad farewell.

"Have you thoroughly considered this?" Yumi asked desperately, half-heartedly making Sachiko change her mind.

Amidst the warmth gathered inside the old greenhouse, Yumi felt lonely as she begged for Sachiko's answer to her pleas. Her eyes began to mist. "Please _promise_ me one thing. Please think about this. I want you to promise me, that you will never leave me. Promise me that. Never leave me. No matter the circumstances, please, do not leave me . . ." She repeatedly cried.

Sachiko smiled at her—she looked at her junior as if she were saying nonsensical things. She put both her hands to Yumi's face and declared firmly, without any regret, "I will never leave you. I promise you, even if the whole world is against us."

Yumi put her hands at the back of Sachiko's neck and pulled her close. She finally succumbed to Sachiko, knowing full well that she promised never to leave her side. _And would keep it._

* * *

_Present day_

Yumi was quiet all the time while they travelled. Kashiwagi's butler personally fetched her at her apartment at exactly seven in the evening, as instructed by his master. After half an hour, they were already at the airport, just on time for the flight. With her art supplies and clothes in tow, she found out from the butler that they would be riding his master's private jet. Yumi rolled her eyes as she thanked the gods for her sudden luck. _Rich bastards._

She found Kashiwagi sitting comfortably inside. Nothing could be said about the interiors, except that _it was pretty expensive._ However, even though she was temporarily fascinated with the sudden fortune of travelling free, she still dreaded her return to the city she once loved. Just the smell of the past was suffocating enough to let her remember things. Yuuki was wrong; not everything was about Kyoto—she could not blame the place—she just despised the events that happened there. She almost considered Kyoto as her home, far enough to be away from Musashino. Those were her thoughts at the time. She felt that she could stay there forever, to be stuck in the image of its culture, of its golden, dramatic history.

But those were the days of the last year of her college life.

She felt her chest tightened. She's getting amused again. Should she remember them? She should return here in a clean slate—a blank paper. She had no need for turbulent emotions—she was just restoring paintings. Is there a need for the usual anger and resentment? She was not making a new painting anyway. There was no need for any muse to be here.

_That should give you a reason not to bother me anymore._

All the time, she was just looking at the window, watching the clouds illuminated by the moon. Without warning, she recollected a friend of the past, Tsutako, when they went on a school trip at Italy. Of how she thought of Maria-sama watching the Earth from above the clouds. She suppressed a choke. How innocent she was back then. How simple-minded she was of her thoughts of Her as divine and pure. Of how Maria-sama was watching over everyone. But when reality faced Yumi, she felt herself drifting further away.

"You want?"

She raised a brow. "Maple Parlor?"

Kashiwagi raised his arm to offer her the pudding.

"Why the skeptical brow?" she was sitting in front of Kashiwagi, not knowing that he was observing her all the length of the trip. "I thought this would be of use to you." He said as he faced the same window that Yumi was lost into.

"Thanks, but no thanks. I don't expect a person such as you to be eating . . . ugh, sweet things." She said derisively.

"I love it. I assumed that you might like one. You are very decisive on your first impressions about me." Kashiwagi replied, with the same mockery that Yumi used. Yumi would have guessed that he was very amused by her current attitude, thus tolerated it. He seemed not to mind her breaching the gap between the decorum between an employer and employee. That, she had violated propriety. She was not minding people around her; she was very used not to bother anymore. Even when an important sponsor was in front of her.

"I'm sorry for being rude."

Kashiwagi returned on finishing his desert. "You don't mean that."

_That should give you a reason not to bother me anymore._

She looked once again at the window. Business is business. Even with her unsuccessful attempt at being diplomatic, she pondered that soon, this commission would just pass by. Being in Kyoto would just passed by. Soon, she would be back at Musashino, doing another commission, or attempting to create another art piece. Sei would get drunk in her house; Touko and Yuuki would visit her from time to time. Her life would circle to only those. Everything would just pass. Just like Ogasawara Sachiko. And Hinomura.

Just like everyone else.

"We're already here. Brace yourself." Kashiwagi said. She was perplexed at the man's words, hitting her chest like a sure arrow.

"Holy shi—" Her seat mildly shook as the plane landed.

They were now heading to the location by car. After they arrived from the airport, she looked once more at the busy lights of Kyoto. Of the eleven centuries since its foundation, it survived wars, famines, fires, and earthquakes, a true indication of how this city was blessed from the gods. Yumi had been too excited to live here many years ago, to start her career as a painter. She felt that of all the 2000 religious places here—Buddhist and Shinto shrines alike—maybe, with much effort and patience, her luck would turn out to be just fine. With how ancient she felt whenever she was here, she was able to turn away from the past. She felt like living to an era when not _everything_ happened. When Yumi had not turned down Sachiko's enchantment back when at the greenhouse.

She should have not succumbed to her feelings at that time. She knew what was to happen, yet she indulged herself. She trusted Sachiko far too much.

She thought of instances that she was in the same situation such as this—landing at the airport, feeling dizzy because of stress even though the travel-time was just a few moments. She could just take the train whenever coming here, but somehow, watching Kyoto above the skies was calming and enraging at the same time. It would have been better if she felt just one of the two—but it was hurting that she was lost in a sea of contrasting emotions.

What a poor soul she was, burying herself to the grievances of the past.

The car stopped in front of a vast wooden gate.

"We're here."

"It's a very large compound."

Kashiwagi nodded and replied, "It belonged once to Kinomoto Hinata."

"No . . . no shi—really?" Yumi's jaw was hanging, as she tried to regain her astonishment as she stepped inside the large wooden gate of the compound. From the inside, the large wooden barricade was slid open by two males, both of them wearing kimono. She tried to discern the garden through the tinted (no, she snorted, it was _shaded_) glass as the car made its way to the main compound. When the car stopped, Kashiwagi's manservant opened the trunk to get Yumi's baggages. Kashiwagi opened the door and said to Yumi, "Come on."

She was sweating as she bolted out of the limo. Kashiwagi looked at her flabbergasted. The painter realized then that she was making a very odd expression, therefore made an excuse. "Sorry for my stupid-looking face. Please, get over it."

_Shit, shit, shit, shit. This is Kinomoto's—! _She tried her hardest to hide her tremendous anxiousness as she continued to walk upon the clobbled path of flat, gray rocks leading to the main house. She covered the lower half of her face with her palm, put force onto every step that she made with her weathered loafers, and stuffed her jeans pocket with one of her hands. She looked at the garden; it was filled with plum and sakura trees, endless artificial puddles and streams bordered with white stones, which branched throughout the expanse of the garden.

When they reached the main house, an old woman in a dull kimono was waiting for them at the porch. She bowed her head to the guests, and without speaking a word, she lead them inside. They were received at the living area, and tea was prepered for them. Kashiwagi did most of the talking, which made Yumi took notice of the woman in front of them.

(Eh?)

She had not realized that the old woman stopped talking to Kashiwagi. Yumi felt her insides boiled as the host bored her eyes to hers. She would have thought that she was being rude, but she was an elderly person. She would have retaliated, but her gut instincts told her not to play with this woman's temparament. But the woman continued to stare at her.

(When will you stop freaking me out?)

"Ah, _obaa-sama,_ is there something on my face?" Yumi asked rather nicely.

"Nothing, Ojou-san, nothing that would trouble you."

Then, Kashiwagi continued talking to her. He asked about the paintings were already delivery to this address, and immediately, the old woman smiled brightly, as if her long lost child had returned. She confirmed its delivery. Kashiwagi, however, insisted that they would just look at the package in the morning.

(Creepy.)

In the end, she would be seeing the paintings in the morning. Would it be Kinomoto's paintings? She felt that she was so far away from reality.

* * *

"I am leaving those to you." That was the last thing Kashiwagi told her before he left. She was alone at the compound with the creepy woman from last night. Yumi was introduced to a room where all her art supplies were sent. She was not surprised of how the bright the room was—it was ideal for studio art. The rest of the package was resting upon a wall. She immediately deduced that those were Kashiwagi wanted her to restore.

She opened the large crate.

Kinomoto Hinata. She was the painter that Fukuzawa Yumi to the highest degree had admired, envied, and respected. She had seen her seal at the low right corner.

She pulled out a set of clean medical gloves from the pocket of her jumper, tore the paper sealing it, and wore the latex. Then, she took the large old painting from its container and placed it carefully on the stand. For a while, she just looked at it, sitting on a stool, her back straight.

She should have been gathering her old research notes about Kinomoto Hinata—her style and techniques, the pigments she was using—traditional or otherwise—everything about her. She should have been touching the _ground_, investigating how she mixed her paint, how she measured the amounts of colors and water. Of what she did by the book or what she improvised. Yet, she was transfixed of the picture in front of her.

"It's so beautiful . . . I don't even want to touch it." Yumi whispered defeatedly.

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

_Ground – _the surface where the pigment is applied.

**A/N: **The truth is, this chapter was very hard to produce. I am quite tired while editing Yumi's narration. Are you too? I felt that her actions—the drastic shifting of emotion between the laughing-like-a-lunatic attitude and the emo-Yumi—was so taxing. I don't know, I just felt that it that was her reaction after she learned that her assignment would be in Kyoto and after Sachiko visited.

After finishing this chapter, I watched Mai HiME. _Daaang_, it's soooo good. I was very curious about it because the ShizNat pairing have been referenced so much by the readers, so after all the hesitation, I finally watched it. (Why did I watch it just _now_? WHY?) I picked Strawberry Panic! first from the two, and it turned out that I _should have_ watched Mai HiME first. And I really love that Psycho Ojou, Shizuru! The way she desired to the point of lunacy for Natsuki . . . so bipolar, so fascinating, I always rejoiced every time I see her. And yeah, I'm totally digging on ShizNat.


	7. Chapter 7

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_If I were enjoying something that I really love, that something was when I used to be together with Sachiko. I have always been the ordinary one, just like others in the rest of the class; but when I became her petit souer, my life changed forever. She chose me among all those that admire her, and persevered to stay together until she graduated. For me, she was an angel from the heavens, a vision. She always struck me as the sole inspiration for me to continue my dream._

_I was a nobody back when she picked me from normalcy. I had no clubs, no committee, no exemplary academic background. Nobody expected something from me, which was fine in general. But when she brought me to the Rose Mansion, and urged me to stay, I realized that I must be something to be worthy of her. She told me before that I should not be strained by my status as her petit souer, and I complied. She said that I could do anything I want to, either to aim high, or to aim low. I joined the art club, improved my academics, charged my leadership skills. In a subtle manner, she would praise me, securing me that she would always be there, the older sister to protect me._

_But then, something in my heart tugged me—there . . . deep within my soul, the realization:_

_That I was using her for me to gain the courage to expel from the ordinary._

_I never told her, I never did. I tried to euphemized her as my sole inspiration—my role model. But the idea that her majestic presence was the one that raised me to the pedestal. I tried to remain there by my own power—but it was not enough. My love for her and her love for her hoisted me up there._

_Deep within my heart, I abhored the realization that my love for her was the reason I stayed in that pedestal, and never beyond that._

_Thus, hatred began to fill my heart the moment she relinquished all connections from me, matching the intensity of my love for her, I felt that I was moving up, up, up away from that pedestal. Yes, hatred, that emotion that I never thought I could wield inside me. I suddenly felt the wind all over me, never restricted from the ground. I felt that I was flying high solely because of my willpower. I felt that hatred was a good thing too. I felt that the gray area between the absolute right and wrong was much vaster than those two combined. I realized that my ideals before were all bullshit. _

_If there were someone that I would like to thank, it would be her. Sachiko. That angel surrounded with red roses—the person who introduced hatred to me._

—_Fukuzawa Yumi_

* * *

CHAPTER 7

* * *

_A week ago_

"It's not about the money." Yoshino said.

"Huh?" (He remembered that line somewhere from before.)

The former Rosa Foetida sat on a steel chair as she scanned small prints of paintings at the Nihonga section. "Someone is bored enough to steal it from the gallery. See? A 25 million yen Fukuzawa. Just one. The others' prices come close to it, like _The Deformed_, with 20 million. _Distance,_ with 21 million. Why only one painting? Why not three Fukuzawa's? Why not the others? There were also 500 million yen-paintings in the same wing. Not to mention a Higashimaya on the opposite wall."

"Because no man could steal three paintings in less than two minutes."

"Let's not take down the fact that they could be two or more. Even footmarks are useless. With all the people visiting that section that day . . ."

They were discussing on Yuuki's workstation. Beside the table was Yuuki's "murder board", where gathered info about Fukuzawa Yumi's case was pinned and displayed.

Yuuki glanced at the prints of the artworks at the Modern Nihonga section of gallery. With dozens of works of art installed there, five of Yumi's paintings were exhibited there, scattered among all else. He sorted the rest of the Fukuzawa nihonga and placed them all on the table, arranging them in one line. None was oil. Two of them were landscapes. All traditional pigment on paper. On his hand were general information of all her five paintings; information include the list of people who formally requested the gallery to sell the Fukuzawa's displayed. Simple enough, all were rejected, much to the gallery's owner's nerves.

The buyers wanted her works because of its strange mix of traditional pigments and modern technique. They knew their art. Apparently, all of them attended their college lectures. It was very hard to gather information from _those_ collectors because they were on the high end of the proverbial social pyramid. It was one of the reasons why Yumi was able to bypass the typical struggling life of a newbie artist—her works were the tastes of those with new money. If they were not able to own it; at least have something from Yumi's hard work—her restorations.

At a young age, she had gained prestige that most art graduates could not accomplish. It seemed that her life was a lie.

"In this case, no matter the 'other party's' number, one painting was still stolen. It could be done by one. " Yoshino murmured as her and Yuuki's eyes stuck upon the small-sized prints. All of them were exceptionally beautiful—to the point that one could value intentionally morbid, fleshed-out human anatomical details of the woman in _The Passing Wind, _and the overwhelming physical manifestation of a very old, dying, fraught body of an ill woman at _The Deformed._

"He's not selfish." Yuuki said. "He's rich. With the technology behind the smoke bombs, I say that they were very handy and were not even recognized by the front door's security's metal detectors. But it could be anyone. However, it's possible that he was able to pass because he frequents the museum, and the staff might know him, thus bypassing strict security procedures. Still, he could be some dog playing Frisbee for his master."

Then, he looked a picture of a detonated smoke bomb, a metal cylinder with at an inch of height and circumference of 2.5 inches. "No smoke bomb could be that stealthy. But the problem is, they could be remotedly activated. He knew that some of the paintings there were of acrylic and water-based, but did not hesitate to smoke the wing. He knew that there were metal plates installed to protect them."

He continued. "But I still could not figure out when he activated it—before of after he took it."

Yoshino sighed. "You handle the technicalities, I'll handle the people. Though, in my part, I already had the list of those people who I want to ask."

"On what grounds?"

Yoshino took the list in front of her. Her eyes scanned the paper unceremoniously, rapidly reading from one line to another. "Their love for Nihonga and their insistence on purchasing one. Many local art collectors these days want Western paintings, particularly those that belong to the Classical, Baroque . . . but have equal interest to van Gogh, Gauguin, Picasso, Monet from the Impressionism . . . modern and postmodern . . . the usual names. But Nihonga is a very small world, when you consider Yumi's style and movement."

She was not making any coherent sentence out loud, but her mind seemed to see it. Whether she analyzed it subjectively or objectively, it did not matter for her.

_Touma._

_Ogasawara._

_Kinomoto._

_Hinomura._

The names she definitely knew.

* * *

_Present day_

Yumi started on working for the restoration on her first day at Kinomoto's compound. She tried her best not to wander away from the room, or even from the house, in alarm of going outside once more and face the memories of the past. She was that cautious, to the point that she could not remove herself from the room. She requested a computer for her extensive research about Kinomoto, and it turned out that she still had hope from her old friends and affiliations back in college. There were many unpublished and published theses about the painter and her art, and she was lucky enough to gather them in softcopy. She used to read about her strictly inside the premises of the thesis section of Lillian U library, but now, she could access everything.

The internet was a very revolutionary invention indeed. (She was still not going out of the Kinomoto compound.)

Even her affiliations from the modern museums at Kyoto were hardly ever inconvenient. She was very lucky to be given trust from them. The feeling was almost mutual with her very minute hope for humanity. It was so unlike when she was doing her undergraduate thesis, when she traveled several levels of hell just to get a manuscript.

Her work was going smoothly, that she began to suspect her surroundings.

Kashiwagi, who she always saw during dinner, was on clockwork—he would always inspect improvements every night, before dinnertime. He would knock his way to her workroom, then he would ask a verbal report from her. At her end, Yumi was irritated to the point of practically covering her mouth to stop herself from verbally assualting her employer. She needed _solitude_ before, during, and after her work; but now, his presence, which used to be scary, was now downright irritating. But when she'd do her _talk_, He'd check Kinomoto's work as if Yumi was not there (not fucking listening), and just stared at it.

The impeccable food from dinner with him afterwards did not even balm her irated stress.

But she could not blame him for it—Kinomoto's works were enough for a person to be lost inside the image. Even Yumi was not immune to her greatness, even with her education at art school, where every piece of art was measured by some sort of a twisted standard.

Even the old lady caretaker of the house was even more disturbing—she had this air of antiquity that she could not decipher, that every time she talked to her, it was as if she was part of a horror movie. She tried not to talk too much, wary of the consequence she might endure if she pushed the old lady's berserk button.

(The old lady might crack her bones and attack her if she did.)

It was too much for her character—she liked to trigger berserk buttons from time to time. But in this house, she was unable to move freely.

But no matter; with Kinomoto's works at the reach of her undeserving hands, she preferred to be alone, succumbing to visual masturbation.

Until now, she could not touch it. Her first procedure was making sure that she had good information of Kinomoto's style and skill, before she proceeded on gathering paint and brushes. For the first few days, she did nothing but research, not only for the first painting that she extracted but also for the rest.

But when she opened the rest of the crates before, she found that Hinata was not the only Kinomoto painter. There were others.

* * *

The man with glasses was sitting comfortably on a leathered bench in front of _Distance_. He was watching a paint-on-paper landscape by Fukuzawa Yumi, who was now away for a commission from the gallery's sponsor. Even with the pack of visitors loitering and blocking his vision of the _fusuma_, he did not trouble whisking them away; he knew that it was inevitable. He wanted to move less than to be tired because of standing in front of it. That's the use of the bench. It was for him to sit there and admire the piece.

He was just simple and practical as he was since high school, and that did not change.

The gallery's owner agreed that this is the right place to talk about business was in front of _Distance_, which was very ironic on his part. They would be talking about a replacement painting for _The Passing Wind, _wherein he suggested a painting to be swapped and posted on the missing painting's blank wall. It was the owner's plans since there was no lead reported by the police and his own appointed art insurance agent, Shimazu. It was better to move on while they wait for the painting's return.

He wondered whether Fukuzawa was informed with about it, or the meeting was still not that good an agreement. He was sure that Fukuzawa had a very broad connections and backing from the art world, and he was not sure if such a move would anger benefactors. She was a favorite, after all. But he was under his employer's orders, and he was tasked to wedge between them to make himself known. He represented a very valuable and influencial person; he could not be ignored easily.

That's why when he insisted the meeting to be so casually here, in front of a Fukuzawa, just so to get his point across.

_He wanted another painting to be the center of attention. _

He was very confident about it, and when the meeting is done, he would show it to the owner. And he will agree to his wishes.

He adjusted his glasses upward.

Someone called to him. He jerked at his surprise but when he found his old friend ready to give an overwhelming embrace, he stood up and met him.

"You look very loaded now!"

He answered casually, as if they were not separated for a long time. While he studied Economics at Hanadera University, the other pursued Criminology at the Academy. They were separated by time and place, but the bond renewed the moment they saw each other.

"And you look much dignified."

"What are you doing here?"

"Just business. You?"

"Business. Looking for an employee here named Satou Sei. She used to be the Rosa Gigantea back in our first year high school. You remember her?"

"That hot blonde?" He feigned unawareness. It was not his first time seeing that woman, given the fact that he was visiting the gallery frequently ever since the painting was missing.

"Yeah. Ah, sorry, I'm in a hurry. I need to speak with her fast. Catch up later?"

"Sure, sure. Just like old times."

Fukuzawa Yuuki went away to the administration offices, while he just propped himself down where he originally sat. He knew that he's one of the investigators assigned to find the painting, and his presence inside the gallery proved that it was not found yet. But very few days just passed since the formal investigation began, and from the looks of it, they were having several leads now. But that was what he thought, as he adjusted his glasses once more. Fukuzawa was known for his diligence, leadership, and intelligence; but surely, having a case as complicated as this once was very tough.

(Best of luck, old pal.)

He was thirty minutes early from the supposed meeting time, but he made himself punctual to enjoy the works before him. For an Economics major like him, one could account art in a very strict standard to of money. But he intended to perceive it otherwise. His friend's sister is one of the most celebrated artists of his generation, and with that, he changed his view towards art.

Then, the _boss_ finally came out to the scene. He looked at him and said, "I'm sorry for being late."

He bowed and said. "No, I was very early myself." Then they sat down facing _Distance._ He took the initiative to be forward and asked, "Have you thought about it?"

"Yes. I am very curious of the work. It's like reminiscing a part of the past. I absolutely love it to be part of the gallery. But are you entirely sure that it was unnamed?"

He smiled at the progress of the conversation. "Yes, it is. Nevertheless, excellent decision. Then, shall I give you the pleasure of seeing it now? It would be better you'd visually experience it not in print but in its true form." he asked.

"You're right, Kobayashi Masamune-san."

"Excellent service is what you get from the Ogasawara Zaibatsu, sir."

* * *

Yoshino and Yuuki were welcomed in Satou Sei's small office at the administration section of the gallery. The insurance agent was there two hours before Yuuki came, and therefore already had gathered enough information from relevant sources. Yuuki came later to check the data, and gather other files that Yoshino was unable to extract. That was the stratery; lame but they still do it. Yoshino was already talking with Sei when Yuuki came inside.

"Where is she?" Yuuki asked as he took a freshly brewed tea from Sei's hand.

"You were not informed?"

"Nope. I visited the apartment once, and found out that she'd be gone for a long time. But she did not mention any place in particular. Touko pretty much went apeshit for Yumi's lack of communication." He said as he took a sip from the cup. "Ouch!"

Yoshino grinned at Yuuki's statement.

"I'm sorry." Sei said. "She's behaving carelessly since it was lost. I should have informed you, but then again, there goes my trust for Yumi to let you know about it. She's having commissions for a benefactor at Kyoto."

Then, Yuuki looked at her surprisingly. "Would it be beneficial for her to be there?"

"I convinced her to take it. Look, I'm not only talking of her career. She had withstood removing herself from everyone for the last years. Even though she thought she moved on, she was not making any progress. She needs to face them. The past. I cannot do anything to remove sadness from her. She engraved it deeply."

"Touko wanted to see her."

"I thought she's busy with her studies."

"She's tired but she manages. Few more efforts, then she'll be an intern. And she'd not seen her for a long time. Do you think you could arrange a meeting for them?" Yuuki asked.

"It's possible."

Yuuki smiled at Sei's response. Yoshino and Sei felt the palpable mirth Yuuki have been emanating whenever Touko was being inserted into the dialogue. They both thought that Touko must have been worried ever since Yumi's loss, but did not have the time to visit her Onee-sama. They've understood how frenzied Touko's schedule was, given that she'd be applying as an intern at her family's hospital after a semester.

The police officer must have been arranging the meeting in secret. (The things he does for those two.)

She wrote on a piece of memopad the address Yumi was currently residing at Kyoto. She looked at her organizer to ensure the correctness of the address. When she handed it over to Yuuki, she asked, "How's the investigation?"

"It's not for the money." Yoshino said nonchalantly.

"It's obvious, given the Higashimaya . . ."

"But we're still digging on names. It's still a nearly hopeless case, you know. This is the other reason I came here. We needed information about several benefactors and art collectors that have been purchasing Nihonga in your gallery. We had few names in mind, and I think they're just suspiscious."

"Names?"

Yoshino handed a small paper.

* * *

Touma Sachiko walked out of the conference room after having a meeting with her staff about. She took her time inside, arranging all files and shutting down her laptop even though the rest of the staff already left. She had a meeting scheduled within fifteen minutes at the top floor of the building and she rather not mess with it. When she closed her laptop, the door of the conference room opened suddenly, revealing her secretary, who took the initiative to get Sachiko's load and escort her outside.

All the while, she thought of herself as stupid for rushing herself in seeing Yumi. In little idle moments such as this, her mind was not helping her, as it wandered to the memory when Yumi and she had last spoken. She was not helping herself, neither helping the painter. If there was one thing that she should have done, it was to avoid any connections with her former imouto.

"Buchou, is everything alright? I could get the president to the phone to cancel the next meeting if you're not feeling well." Her secretary and junior said. She did not notice that she was staring at the fine long table of the conference room, absorbed into her thoughts. Her secretary, however, was already opened the door and was waiting for her to proceed first.

"Please, no." Sachiko said to her secretary. "There is nothing to worry about."

With that reply, her secretary gave her a folder containing a report she expected today.

She walked out of the room. She dismissed her secretary and proceeded to the elevator. After pushing the button for the uppermost floor of the building, she rested her back to its wall.

She felt helpless that Yumi was not listening to her anymore. Their last meeting, she was supposed to express everything that she felt after they separated, but unlike her usual confidence in conversing with other people, she was unable to catch Yumi's attention anymore. Yumi locked herself from anything that Sachiko had said, and the latter knew it. Of the years had gone by, only this time that she gathered all her courage to face her.

Or was Yumi listening to everything she had said but did not like what the former was hearing?

At that time, Sachiko told her that she wanted to reconnect. To at least be civil with each other. To accept what happened before and moved on together. Sachiko wanted to face everyday of her life knowing that Yumi had forgiven her. Only that. She needed nothing more from her but that.

But then, Yumi had gone too far by breaking into Sachiko's defences and plucked once more her weak spot. It was so hurting that Yumi had brought out inside of Sachiko that the latter was trying to suppress wth al her might whenever Yumi was around. She knew that being much more intimate with Yumi was far from possible, but Yumi shoving that idea in front of her—it was downgrading. Sachiko knew her place—she always had, and if Yumi had not done it, she would still know her place.

She clutched on the folder she was holding.

The door of the elevator slid sidways revealing a large hall; she walked passed a secretary that was posted at her table, and she greeted her warmly. The secretary then nodded and picked up the telephone receiver on her desk to tell her employer that Touma Sachiko was waiting beyond the door of the president's office.

Then, Sachiko got an approval to advance inside.

"Hello, Grandfather; Father."

* * *

_Few days later_

Yumi dug the covered tip of her highlighter at the surface of her scalp when a sudden itch began to spread from the back of her head. It was even hard to ease her irritation because of her tight ponytail, preventing the highlighter from thoroughly locating the source. It was already late evening, and a few hours ago, she just shared dinner with Kashiwagi, along with the old woman and his butler. Kashiwagi was very loose on the bounderies between masters and servants—she saw his middle-aged butler, Shimata-san, patting his master's head one time, as if he was Kashiwagi's old uncle. She happened to witness such a lenient act of closeness between them when she opened one of the sliding doors of her room.

She was reading the documents she downloaded and printed—which consumed several reams of bond papers when she printed them. Some papers were sorted out and stapled; pictures of paintings were clipped above them. Documents were scattered even beyond the confines of her room, as she leasurely lie down at the adjacent corridor, reading and highlighting a section of a document on her hand. The flourescent light inside her workroom served as her light source.

She did not realize that her thoughts were not on the page she was reading.

She felt foreign among the rest of the staff here, which was quite fine with her. The things that made herself calm down were the paintings that she was assigned to restore. They were all works of geniuses, only that they came from one line of family, the Kinomoto, as depicted by the similarity of the signature seals. Yumi felt as if she were in a detective drama—she felt compelled by the names—three, in fact.

_Hinata._

_Junko._

_Setsuna._

When she searched for these names in the database of Japanese painters of Nihonga (all in strict regulation), only Hinata and Junko appeared, naming them two of the masters of Nihonga—accompanying a certain art movement of their time. Hinata was famous during the pre-war and post-war, creating a tremendous showcase of transfomations in style and movement during that revolutionary time in history. Junko was a female turn-of-the-century painter, who had pursued her dream as an artist and rose even amongst the sea of male artists who dominated during her days. Their works were highly sought of by fastidious and demanding art collectors because of their rarity. Who would have thought that Kashiwagi—that scary of a man—would have treasures such as this?

(So that's why he insisted that Yumi should look at the paintings first. They were from the black market.)

On second thought, Kashiwagi might fit to the fastidious and demanding type—it's just that it's not easily impressed with his rough, unpolished image.

Junko's and Hinata's works did not require extreme restoration; they were taken care of, the fact that they were quite famous. Each of them having two paintings to be restored, Yumi would have no problem of fixing them because their works and painting styles were already thoroughly researched and properly documented. And the fact that they have significant exhibited contributions to the community even during their times. It was different for Setsuna.

She was nowhere to be found in the database. Yet she found nothing less brilliant to the technique and skill that Setsuna did bestow in her two paintings. She had silimar signature seals with Junko and Hinata, but it seemed that it was not as recognized and welcomed as the first two.

(What happened then?)

It was when that she heard footsteps. She looked sideways and she found Kashiwagi and the old lady walking side by side, the latter had a tray with small two small cups and a bottle of rice wine. Kashiwagi, donned in a dark green kimono, sat beside Yumi, while the old woman settled the round, wooden tray between them. She settled down the document and highlighter at her side. She looked at him and shrank inwardly.

(I think I need a bath.)

Kashiwagi began to pour one small cup. He told her to relinquish their business relationship and just drink. Yumi took it and drank its contents. She returned the favor and served him too. The exchange continued for several servings.

He noticed the papers scattered around Yumi and picked one random document.

"I could not find Setsuna. Damn, this commission's hard." She assumed that he knew what she was talking about. "I could not even find a trace of her works in Kinomoto's library." She talked about the library situated at the compound. "Who's she, anyway?"

She expected him not to answer, but she heard one after a few moments. He smiled, looking at the moonlit garden in front of them. "Setsuna was Hinata's daughter."

(She cringed inwardly the moment Kashiwagi began to show cryptic emotions such as this. Scary man.)

"This is the secret?" She felt incredulous of what she was about to hear.

"Yes."

Yumi shrugged, trying to act unsurprised. "Well . . . that's cool; should it really be kept secret? I never knew she had a daughter. She must be in her fifties or sixties now. Where do you think she is? It's very ironic—I am restoring paintings of a person still alive . . ."

"She's dead."

"That made sense."

The next exhibition of the Kinomoto includes works of an unknown painter—her postmortem debut.

"If you want to have information about her, then why did you just ask me?" Kashiwagi raised the question as he poured wine to Yumi's empty cup.

When Yumi finished it, "I assumed that you're just a typical art collector . . . you cared about the work, but never the painting's life." Yumi shrugged.

Then Kashiwagi pulled out a folder from his kimono and handed it to Yumi. He mused, "Kinomoto Setsuna, the unknown daughter of Hinata. Very fascinating, isn't it? It's really hard to find information about her."

A blood vessel at Yumi's forehead convulsed. (Scumbag, you richbrat of shit, you had this information all this time. Are you trying my patience, really?) Yumi struggled to calm herself. She was about to stand up and punch her employer—she'd really take advantage of the 'No Employer-employee Policy' here—when Kashiwagi handed a fancy envelope. Yumi opened it, and she found herself forcing her anger not to blow up.

"Ogasawara Zaibatsu." She seethed.

"Something wrong about the company?"

"Nothing. Just . . . just the name."

"The gallery loaned a Nihonga from the company to replace your missing work, until it's found." He said. "They're going to have a party for it at the gallery. That invitation was forwarded by your senior, Satou Sei, along with a note." He gave her a letter.

_Yumi, Kashiwagi-san would have explained to you _

_why the Ogasawara Zaibatsu sent you a letter. Even I_

_did not know of it, until the boss handed me another_

_copy of that invitation. Even I did not know the details._

_But it's his gallery. Anyway, Yoshino, Yuuki and I will be _

_visiting you sometime, so we expect a __warm__ welcome. _

_Sei._

_P.S. Touko will also be with us too. She wants to see you._

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N: **Hi there! Thanks for reading this chapter. One thing that I would say for this chapter was that this would lead Yumi to face Sachiko once more. Many details were put into this baby, but I should tell you, they were relevant. Although, it was hard for me not to put the real deal about Sachiko and Yumi's past. I'll try for the next chapters.

I really ran through this chapter many times because I was not all comfortable of the detective part of Yuuki and Yoshino. It seemed to be _dragging_, but this was the only improvement I could do to at least tell you that they are actually having leads. So, once again, I ask the readers to please comment about the detective part—I suggest that you rely on first instinct about this stuff.

Also, thanks for those who subscribed, read. Although I really want to your reviews (please, may I?), for the sole reason that I could have a discussion with you.

Oh, yeah, I happened to bump on the movie of Revolutionary Girl Utena called the Adolescence of Utena. I was very lucky to stumble upon this classic. It's SCENERY PORN (LOL). I really like the short-haired Utena.


	8. Chapter 8

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_My sister is still my sister. She may be different from before, but she could never change the way she cared for other people. I still can see her, as she was many years since. She is strong like that. No one could break my sister completely. No one. Just as I expect from her. _

_I may never be able to apprehend those that hurt her before, but now, I can. _

_She's always been my protector. I hope I could do the same for her._

—_Fukuzawa Yuuki_

* * *

CHAPTER 8

* * *

The slide door was opened slightly, revealing an unfazed Fukuzawa Yumi on her medical gloves, mixing mineral pigments. On her table were different colors of fine powders of pigments, glue, and a liter of bottled water. She already prepared the glue yesterday. Couple of nights had she spent for allnighters in examining one of Hinata's work—she painstakingly inspected every centimeter of the paper. Hinata was very meticulous in applying her brush to the paper, thus Yumi must take her time memorizing the whole piece. Not satisfied, she even asked Kashiwagi for an SLR camera for documentation, in case she went lost.

Examining a Kinomoto painting took so much time, even though she would just restore certain areas in the paper. She had read and familiarized herself of Hinata's style—and that meant copying her, as if she were Hinata herself. She was very anxious that she specifically requested (through a note attached upon the sliding doors of her workroom) _never _to bother her.

(Maybe, she could do duplicates of these, even under Kashiwagi's nose?)

She took her time in securing the support of Kinomoto's painting, when a shadow darkened the same _fusuma _where her note was posted. She braced herself for the outsider, moving two feet away from the _Nihonga_. The shadow showed a very tall stature, with long hair riding with the wind outside. When the shadow moved, Yumi announced to it, "Do not destroy the fucking door. It's not the same as my office's, Sei."

Thus, when the door was slid fully open, only a very minute tremor was detected by Yumi's socked feet. She noticed quick but small turbulent waves upon the water of the bottled water on her table.

Yumi smirked at Sei, who put her hand on her waist. The painter said, "You really have no manners."

"I'm expecting a warm welcome, not a complaint full of expletives."

Yumi rolled her eyes. "Why a letter, Sei? You could've just sent me SMS. It would have been much faster. Sometimes, I could not even stand your logic."

"There's flair and drama when one corresponds in the traditional way, Yumi. You're getting too crass for your own good." Sei retorted back.

"Drama can kiss my ass." Yumi sat at her stool; Sei motioned inside the room, and looked at Kinomoto's work. She bent her back low, prodded her head until her nose was a foot away from the paper, and said, "I'd steal for a Kinomoto such as this one. Look at the brush strokes . . ."

Yumi flinched at the word "steal", but tried her hardest to ignore Sei's comment and sighed, "That's what I thought too," and watched Sei retract her head and stood straight. She continued, "Her brushwork is one tough shit to familiarize."

"Have you mastered it?"

"Tried on a paper yesterday after the glue prep. I think I can handle it." Yumi smirked.

Sei put her hand on Yumi's head, "Damn sure you do."

They talked about the nature of her commission, about the three Kinomoto painters that she had to study, and the six paintings she researched. Yumi tried not to expose Setsuna Kinomoto's relationship with the two famous artists, and she was lucky enough that Sei did not bother to ask. She also let Sei look at the other five Kinomoto paintings, enough for Sei to be too giddy that Yumi waved Sei's hand every time she tried to touch them without gloves.

When Yumi finished her informal report for her senior, they went outside to sit at the corridor, watching the Japanese garden in front of them. The painter then asked for Yuuki and the others, and Sei replied that they were being entertained by the old woman, and that she volunteered herself to fetch for "Yumi Ojou-san." Sei said nothing after that, and requested Yumi to meet the rest at the living area. When they reached at the large room, Yumi expected her brother and Yoshino.

Her brother was wearing his usual black ensemble, while Yoshino was wearing a red button-down shirt and white blazer and skirt. They were sitting in front of a black wooden low table, eying the tea offered to them. She lifted a brow at the people before her, and at the same time, both the police and the insurance agent looked up and greeted her. They said, "Yumi." She further scanned the room, revealing the old woman in her maroon-colored kinomo and one young woman, having a long, wavy, auburn hair down to her upper back. She wore a simple dark blue dress, her upper body covered with an elbow-length white cardigan. When the person noticed Yumi's presence, the latter lifted her lips upward and a small, content smile appeared, her face glowing like diffused sunshine. "Touko."

Yoshino dropped her jaws as she witnessed Yumi's very familiar, cheerful smile for her little sister. It was so long . . . so long since she'd seen such a smile coming from that woman, that she felt a little jealous of Yumi's treatment for Touko. The first time they've seen each other at the Musashino PD, she was very distant, but here—a fragment of the old Yumi was before her eyes.

Touko stood up the same time as her Onee-sama said her name and hugged Yumi. She did not let go of her grande soeur, even though the latter was already hugging her back and patting her head. She said softly, "Whoah, Touko, you look so pretty. Yuuki _surely_ is taking care of you. You know you can always talk to me about this and that . . ."

"Yumi, cut it out." Yuuki was complaining in the background, albeit a little flushed.

When Touko broke away, Yumi saw a very acute pout and eyes like slits. "Nee-san, why didn't you tell us that you're going to Kyoto?" She asked snootily.

Yumi just grinned and apologized.

Then, they sat beside each other, while the old caretaker was busy unforming the visitors that the master of the house was not yet home, and that they should stay for the night.

* * *

Five years ago, when she heard from Yuuki that Yumi-sama would be home from Kyoto, she began to plan her days to meet and spend time with her dear Onee-sama. It was already the end of the academic year, and there were still the finals to pass, but she digressed. Knowing that Yumi would be back for the break, she begged Yuuki to keep tabs of every news about her Onee-sama. Yuuki had been supportive and enthusiastic to her that she could not help but feel guilty. She felt that she was not giving enough back to her boyfriend. But whenever she brought that into their conversations, he would brush it off.

"I will do everything for the world you wanted."

His words were always as if he owned it. That it would change for them, not otherwise. If not, he would act upon it himself—that's how he dearly and violently loved her. He would boldly say those, every time she felt that she doubted. She tried hard not to believe him, but she could not help it. He was always so direct, so honest, and never shy with his feelings that he overwhelmed her sometimes. He was always the first to take initiative, something that she was used to be before they met.

Just like before, five years ago. When Yumi-sama would finally go back to Musashino after a long time from Kyoto, she said that would stay here for good. Yuuki told her quickly after he heard the news, and with that, he told her that she should prepare herself. He said that she would spend her time with her onee-sama during the break, never would mind about him.

Thus came her first meeting with Yumi after a long time. She changed much ever since last year; Touko felt Yumi's heart became all too hard but brittle. There was an air of anger and sadness about her that she could discern was because of bad experiences. But all the while, Yumi never was did show her sorrow to her, neither the usual scowl that she wore whenever she was facing other people, even her own brother. For other people that used to know her, Yumi's naïve, hyperactive, clumsy features had disappeared. Yumi would simply be an antagonist to everything that others would say, but it seemed that Yuuki was unscathed by her older sister's taunts. It was as if he saw it coming.

Yumi had changed so much, but for Touko, it was as if she never changed at all. Her enthused smile, it was still there. Her hyped disposition, it was still there. Her very expressive face, it was still there. Whenever she was with Yumi, it was as if high school had never come and gone.

Even though it has been almost a year ever since Sachiko had been married.

During one of the days that she helped Yumi unpacked to her new apartment, she asked her a question that was haunting her for a very long time ever since Yumi went to Kyoto.

"Onee-sama, why are you so nice to me?"

She looked at Yumi when she felt that the latter suddenly stopped her movement from opening a large box. Her Onee-sama looked at her with wary eyes and bleak smile. Touko hugged her tightly, without any thoughts of reluctance. In return, Yumi would just pat Touko's head.

The latter asked for her forgiveness, for not knowing anything, for not being there when Yumi needed someone to comfort her. She hated herself for being there at Sachiko's wedding, not knowing that at Kyoto, Yumi was dying.

She knew that answer to her first question. At the same time, Yumi knew that Touko understood.

And even up to the present, it stayed the same.

She would never be cruel to Touko. She had changed so much, but it did not mean that it would also apply to her little sister. They had too much grief and sorrow when they were not soeurs yet. Her petit souer had been like Yumi for most of her life until they became soeurs, and Yumi does not want her own disposition to add with Touko's.

She was so tired of everyone wondering the reason for her change. She was tired of people reminiscing her old self, trying to change her back. When Touko saw her change, she did not complain. She understood. She held on her the same as before, without discomfort. Touko never demanded for an explanation for Yumi's treatment to other people. She never insisted the reason.

Touko had read Yumi clearly. They did not even mind the plain transparency between their eyes. As long as Touko understood her, Yumi will be satisfied.

With Touko's passiveness, Yumi told her of the past. Yumi felt free of the things she wanted to do, of the way she wanted to act. But still, Yumi watched herself carefully, not letting herself be drifted away too much, because she doesn't want her little sister to get tired of her. Or hate her. She could not fathom that possibility . . . therefore, for Touko and only in front of her, Yumi would remain her old, cheerful self of her Lillian days.

And at the same time for Touko, no matter how Onee-sama would change, she would not leave her side. She knew all the facets of her kindness—the exploitative and expressive ones of the highschool's past, and the silent concern and sarcastic behavior of the present. No matter Onee-sama's manner of showing her feelings, Touko will accept it all—just like the way she accepted her years ago, no matter how contrasting they used to be in the past. She was just giving back the attention that Yumi gave her (even before she bacame Yumi's petite soeur), when Yumi became the one who gave her silent treatments.

Touko knew: it was really hard to be like Yumi of the highschool days.

The soeurs were walking along the vast Japanese garden of the Kinomoto compound for the quite some time, silently thinking, while holding their hands. When Yumi excused them after teatime, they began to stroll along the garden. It was already midafternoon when tea with Sei, Yoshino and Yuuki were still commencing. She knew that Touko wanted to be alone with her onee-sama, therefore, Yumi took the initiative to get them away from the room.

Now, it's time for them to at least talk.

"You find it hard that I came back here?" Yumi asked.

"No. When Yuuki told me that it was for a commission, I thought that Kyoto should not affect your work. No matter how it concerns the past." Touko smiled.

"Nicely said. You just made an image of me being mature. I'm not, you know." Yumi said, even though Touko was absolutely opposed her with heavy stares. When she saw their intertwined hands, she jested, "Are you sure Yuuki would not mind?"

"Don't be silly, Nee-san. He was the one who arranged this meeting. I have a very tight schedule, you know."

"I don't get it." Yumi smiled.

"Jeez, nee-san."

"So, Touko-chan, how's my brother fairing now?" Yumi asked with twinkle in here eyes.

She brushed it off, like lint on her skirt. "Oh, nothing special. You know, Yuuki's just being . . . well, Yuuki." But she blushed mid-sentence.

She narrated dramatically. "His bite is the same with his bark. But, you know, I always assume that you are the quiet one in your relationship, while he's the one declaring stupendous, impossible sweet nothings to you, acting all cool, calm and collected. He'd read your thoughts even though you're not talking—he'd just interpret with your expressions. I don't see him that way, but it's not hard to imagine it." Then she looked at Touko with a gleam in her eyes. "I'll leave him to you. You can handle him."

"Nee-san, you sure are talkative today." Touko raised a brow in response, trying hard not to reveal her astonishment for Yumi correctly reading her mind. Yumi was not entirely wrong about what she assumed, but the med student must admit: Yuuki was quite a big talker when he courted her. Touko at that time was entirely amazed by how confident he was. Particularly when he started doing what he told he promised. "I'm just lucky I caught him first. The first girl wins."

"I just knew you'd say that."

"How about you?" Touko asked innocently.

She knew the entirety of such a vague question, but if she would hear this from somebody else besides Touko, she would sure vent out a piss-off, sarcastic reply to blow him or her away. She said, "She came back. Right after my painting was stolen."

Touko's face held a confused look. There were others . . . "Who exactly are you talking about?"

Yumi smiled weakly, and sighed as she recalled an afterthought that she told Touko everything. "Sachiko."

Touko braved, "And then?"

"She visited twice. I accomodated her for a while, gauging if I could control my hatred over an indifferent approach, but it seemed that it always win. Then, I told her to piss off."

Touko remained silent, as she weighed her reply to the very vulnerable and defenceless sister. It would have been better if she would be totally honest with her feelings, but she always considered Yumi's past. She thought that it was her flaw whenever Yumi's around; she always see Yumi holding her grudges against her back, a burden that failed to be released even by time.

Yumi noticed Touko's silence, and she said firmly, even though she halfway dreaded her encouragement, "You can say anything. I told you I want you to be blunt for me."

"Have you ever thought of forgiving her? I hate the bad things she'd done to you, but did you ever tried to hear her out? Her intentions for seeing you again?" Touko asked softly, preparing for a verbal spar.

(Just as she thought:)

Yumi snapped. "How could you be so forgiving? I knew what exactly happened, on both sides. If she were brave enough, then she should have held on to her promises. You were there, you've seen it. _You_ were lambasted by her grandfather until the marriage just because he knew you're close to me. Even though you're her cousin. Just because you knew about our relationship. She seduced three years out of me and when she knew she could not get away from them anymore, she dumped me like a doll when she's done playing with it. I never knew rejection and betrayal until she came, Touko."

She was huffing hot air out of her mouth; she felt her brain burn. She was berating every ounce of frustration to her younger sister, as she constantly flail her arms to prove her point. She tried to cry, but no tears came out.

"I was lambasted because of my birth, remember?" Touko watched her complain, but she just held her gaze straight to Yumi's eyes. She understood completely. When Yumi was still not calming down, Touko held her to her arms firmly, not letting go until Yumi's nerves tranquiled down. She said firmly, "But you taught me long ago to be forgiving, Nee-san. And I am thankful for that. But should you be forever bound to your hatred for her? I hate to see you like this, Nee-san. I hate seeing you get hurt like this."

She let herself be rested in Touko's embrace. "I'm sorry, Touko."

* * *

Yuuki and Yoshino entered the painter's workroom, with Sei guiding them inside.

"Don't screw this up." Sei said as she guarded the room from the outside.

"Likewise." The two replied.

"She's messy as always," Yoshino said.

Yuuki inspected the room and replied, "She's not messy like you think."

Yoshino scowled as she silently contradicted the detective's statement. She was not surprised finding the room to be quite messy; art materials were lying everywhere—sketchbooks were settled on the floor unceremoniously, several oslo papers crumpled at different areas of the room, and some charcoal and pencil sketches were lying everywhere. Yet, when she scanned further, she was beginning to acknowledge Yuuki's rebuttal.

Yumi was only messy on things that did not matter. She looked at the crates of the six paintings that she was assigned to restore, which was carefully placed on one corner of the room, properly labeled. Brushes and knives were sorted out upon her table. Her apron was folded carelessly on her stool, and the first painting for restoration, which was supported by a stand, was covered with white cloth, protecting it from its environment.

"Kinomoto Hinata, Kinomoto Junko. These are famous painters." Yuuki pondered. He was looking at some documents piled neatly inside a drawer. Documents were labeled properly and arranged according to Yumi's preference, which Yuuki had tried to decipher. "Yamayurikai and theses really made her organized." He chuckled as he continued. "Although I couldn't see how she sorted these files." He took them from the drawer and began to scan the documents.

The two looked at each other.

_Kinomoto. _

Yoshino grabbed on a ream of papers and scanned them. She was now looking for a connection—a relation between Yumi's commission and her lost painting. Before they left for Kyoto, she was surprised that the name Kinomoto appeared in the names that were buying Nihonga paintings for the last years. That name itself should not be existing anymore—Hinata was supposedly the last heir to the line. And she already passed away many years ago. And whe Yumi was assigned to work here, Hinata's former residence, Yoshino thought that there was more than this simple commission. Yumi was not disclosing any information regarding her work, and Yoshino was not successful in getting it out of her, even when Touko was around.

That was supposedly Touko's function here—but it seemed that Yoshino had failed to see that Yumi could not be as easily convinced as before. When she saw the transformation of the painter's demeanor the moment she saw her little sister, the insurance agent thought that she could take that for her advantage. Before they came sneaking into her room, the agent asked for the nature of her commission, the painter replied:

"_Talk to my lawyer. Or to Kashiwagi. He's a pain in the ass."_

(Ugh.)

How could a dead person be buying Nihonga now?

She heard Yuuki loosened the first button of his white shirt and tie, and settled on the tatami mat in an Indian sit. "Do you know of the rumors about Hinata?"

She considered Yuuki's afterthought. "From what I see here, Yumi needs to restore six Kinomoto paintings. I had identified four of them from the labels at the crates, two of them are of Hinata's, and the other two are of Junko's. Two left and it doesn't have any label. We just can't open them without Yumi's supervision. If we compromised the goods, then her commission's no good. Her employer's gonna be pissed off."

Yuuki flipped a page of a document about Hinata. "Rumor has it that she had a daughter."

Yoshino said. "I know that story too. But that girl was not found. It may be true, or not. But it could be a reason why we had a Kinomoto on the list. Her child might still be alive." She looked outside, and found Sei still at the door. "He has Kinomoto paintings, which are very rare to acquire. The first time I saw Yumi's employer, that Kashiwagi Suguru, I don't trust him at all. So does Yumi. What made me wonder's that Yumi accepted the commission even though she doesn't trust him. But it's work. And money. And the fact that every Nihonga artist would kill just to get a glimpse of a Kinomoto."

"What I hate was the Ogasawara and Touma added to the list." Yuuki growled.

Yoshino supplied. "Fukuzawa-san, it's just a list."

The cop was now engrossed with the vendetta against Touma Sachiko."Ever since it went lost, that woman started visiting her. Now, her company would loan the gallery a painting to replace Yumi's."

"You think the Ogasawara Zaibatsu is after her?"

"Do you have any idea about this, Sei-san?" Yuuki turned to Yumi's senior.

Sei replied absently. "I don't want to talk about _her_ . . ."

"You manage the commissions. Your boss or Kashiwagi should have told you details. You were surprised that when we gave you the list. I knew it." Yuuki taunted the Sei.

"I was as surprised as Yoshino when I saw the list." Sei tartly defended. "Everyone in the art circle knew the rumors about Kinomoto's heir. They said that she's Hinata's prodigy. But they never found the child."

"Why don't you ask me?"

They were interrupted by Kashiwagi Suguru, on his white kimono, who was suddenly at the doorway, surprising Sei, who was supposed to warn them if intruders were to come. Behind him was his butler. He looked at Satou Sei skeptically, while the latter gave him a surprised and disgusted expression.

Yuuki swore under his breath. She was supposed to be guarding the doorway to warn us for incoming intruders. She just let Kashiwagi slipped into the radar.

(We're doomed.)

"Kinomoto Hinata's child? I belonged to that so-called art circle, but I did not even catch that kind of rumor." Yumi suddenly appeared on the other side of the corridor, with Touko in tow. She continued, "Or maybe because I don't socialize much. Kashiwagi-san," she bowed to her employer, "_Okairinasai._"

"_Tadaima._" Kashiwagi hinted a small smile at Yumi. "I don't know anything about it, if you ask me. I just collect their works." Then, he acknowledged the person behind the painter. "Matsudaira Touko-san, _gokigenyou_."

"Who told you to mess with my stuff?" Yumi growled at Yuuki and Yoshino, who were currently holding papers.

"We're just very curious, you know. Surely you have no dead bodies here to hide, _ne_, Yumi-san?" Yoshino excused.

"Lame." The painter grunted at the investigators. "You people always spectacularly fail to understand the fucking term called private property."

Unknown to Yumi, both of them got what they came for. Yoshino and Yuuki tucked folded papers on the back pockets of their clothes. If Yumi would notice the absence of some pages of the documents later, it would not matter. They just wanted to finish this job.

That painting should appear as soon as possible; they were running out of leads. Yuuki wanted to give up, but seeing her sister like this—silently mourning for it—he would take his chances. Yoshino and Yuuki walked out of the room.

"You suck as a watcher, Satou-san." Yuuki said, as he rolled his eyes.

* * *

Yumi was waiting for Kashiwagi inside his office. Of all the rooms, this one was designed the Western style, evident from the furnishings—his office table, and even to the where she was sitting. Two large windows behind the table revealed the gardens of the compound—she could even see her workroom across the vast Japanese garden. The sun already had set to the west, and darkness was already filling out outside.

The room was filled with shelves of books, and on walls were westerned styled paintings—products of different art periods. He even had a copy of The Scream, which was known for its painter to produce many copies. When she noticed painting, she looked at it very carefully, reminiscing her college days when her class went abroad for field trip in Europe, on a school break, just to visit different art museums all over the continent. It was expensive, but she managed to save for it.

Then a memory crept again. She grunted in misery. She should not be thinking of her right now.

The door opened silently, revealing Kashiwagi. "Fukuzawa-kun, sorry for the delay." He motioned his employee to sit. He proceeded to his own chair and rested his elbows on the table.

"Kashiwagi-san."

"We both know the reason why you're here." He stated flatly.

"I did not invite them in my workshop." She replied quickly, imitating him.

"I know. Satou-san told me. She let them in, knowing that you had nothing to hide. Did you tell them about Setsuna?"

"I told Sei. But she'd get the idea that Setsuna might be Hinata's lost kid. Though I might be lying to the police, I lied to them knowing nothing about Setsuna. I'm not particularly helpful to the people searching my lost stuff." She scratched her head and deposited her hand in the back pocket of her faded jeans. "But I assure you," she turned serious all of a sudden, "I won't let anyone touch your stuff. _Except me._"

Kashiwagi shifted his chair to rotate it backwards, now facing the tall windows. "It doesn't matter—it will be revealed anyway. I told them to stay here for the night. We should celebrate. There are not much people in this house—it's better to take that in our advantage."

"Right." Yumi supplied nonchalantly.

He asked, "Well, are you going to the gallery's party?"

"Don't ask me." Yumi gritted between her teeth, hopeful that Kashiwagi did not hear it.

* * *

There was one thing that surprised Kobayashi Masamune while he visited the office of the president of the Ogasawara Zaibatsu. Even though he looked frail on the outside—the bones of his fingers were already sticking out, his skin sagging and dull, his back almost abnormally bent—his gaze was almost like the eyes of a killer. They were deep black, even though the he wore a thick, rimmed eyeglass to supplement his sight. He wore a very expensive suit over a crisp white shirt and vest—as if he came from a British period movie. Still, such intimidating impression was one of the reasons he stayed on top. Nobody could ever read his mind.

Even though his voice were deep, he spoke on a very low volume that Kobayashi needed to keep his ears really sensitive for him not to anger his employer. And since he was here for reporting, it was intended that he would never speak unless given permission. He gulped as he looked straightly to his employer's eyes.

(Better to appear confident, rather letting him know that I want to pee on my pants now.)

"What is my grandson-in-law and Sachiko was planning now?"

"He liked the idea that we're letting one of their paintings loaned in that gallery. Supportive to his wife as ever. The Touma are very fond of Nihonga, and was enthusiastic enough to share his collection with the museum. About business, the Hinomura had offered a very nice payment for it, the moment he saw the painting. It was as if he was looking at the past, he said." Kobayashi talked evenly and unhurriedly, so that Ogasawara-sama would not demand him to repeat the speech once more.

"Sachiko was very enthusiastic about the project, especially when she proposed it. She told Tooru and I that this was about Public Relations, for branching out our connections to the art world. It was very logical, more so that she's performing the duties now of a customary lady of higher birth." He talked desicively to himself, resolving Kobayashi as his impermanent sounding board.

"My opinion, President," he searched for a sign from his employer for Kobayashi to continue, "She was like that ever since I became one of your employers."

Still, as if he was not in the room. The old man spoke rather absent-mindedly, "It is not like her, Kobayashi-kun. Not very like her." had he spoken in a very stern voice. "Something must be brewing here. Perhaps, I thought that my anxiousness would soon be gone after she had been married to Seijirou. But now, it seemed that my granddaughter had been messing with herself again."

He looked at the frozen Kobayashi with his obsidian eyes. He demanded in a hoarse tone, "What has she been doing in the last weeks?"

Kobayashi reported in his usual confidence. "According to my sources, she had been doing at work, just like before—always on schedule. She has been attentive to his husband, like you expected her to be. At work, she seemed much occupied, particularly when a painting in that same gallery has been stolen. That proposal probably occurred to her because of it. She had been very curious about it that she'd visited the gallery a couple of times, with me of course, before giving me the order of suggesting the proposal to the owner. And it was a success. In a few days, the company would host a little party for our painting's new home. Sachiko-sama has been dealing the preparations herself." He adjusted his glasses.

Kobayashi had been with her when she first visited Fukuzawa Yumi two days after it was stolen. He'd even watched her looking at _The Deformed _for hours, until he told her about of his interpretation of Fukuzawa's work. He knew only of Touma and Fukuzawa's relationship during high school, but nothing more than that. When he noticed that she was too saddened to Fukuzawa's bad luck that day, he thought that it's just normal. But knowing that her meeting with the painter was a first time in years . . . he agreed with Ogasawara-sama: there was really something brewing.

"She had been there?"

"Yes. I've been with here the first time she visited. Very amused with the Nihonga section, I say. Particularly with the works of my classmate's sister's works. The same artist that had her work stolen in that same gallery."

The old man leaned forward, covering his moustache with his entwined fingers. His elbows rested on the wide, oak table. "Pray, tell me. Who was that artist?"

Masamune inwardly sighed. Somehow, he knew that his employer knew the answer. "Fukuzawa Yumi, Mister President."

"Hm." The old man's brows met as he left Kobayashi wondering what made the former silent. "You don't say."

"I've worked with her at Hanadera Academy during my student council days. She was Rosa Chinensis of her time, as was your esteemed granddaughter's _imouto._" He offered.

"I know _very much_, Kobayashi-kun. So, that chit is still alive. However, who exactly is persuing who?" He austerely dropped. "You may go now, Kobayashi-kun. Keep an eye on _her_."

"As you wish, President."

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for reading, everyone!

What do you think about Touko? I describe her to be an antithesis of Yumi—since, well, Yumi somehow had this big influence to her. Reverse personality. I've been thinking of giving her some role in the story, but then, it depends on how the next chapters will turn out.

For the next chapters, I would practically introduce characters (in canon), as a gift for you guys who had been looking for other Marimite characters to be featured here. Since, well, there's gonna be a party! Oh, yeah. Everyone's invited.

Oh, yeah, and please, don't forget to comment! Your thoughts (and even your simple hellos) are great motivation to continue the story! Please review!


	9. Chapter 9

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_While sitting at a small space upon the wall (a space without any upturned canvas), I watched Nee-san paint a Nihonga piece, quietly observing her stance while she took time deliberately on applying details for minute areas of the _ground. _Her second exhibition was one thing she had in mind, and although she had no definite deadline, she did not waste any moment idling. Maybe, it was because everything—her intense feelings, as she once describe it—was still fresh in her and those come with inspiration. Even after two years. After all, even though anger brought out words that one would really regret, in anger one could bring out the best words the lords of literature could appreciate. As she said before, one could described artistically in words how fucked up—or rather, how miserable her life was, and once they were put into paper, they were magnificently written—the words accurately depicted those intense emotions inside the writer's heart, and was able to nail it fair and square to the reader's own. She applied such a technique to her art._

_The painting called now as _The Passing Wind_ was being painted before my eyes. I could see her hatred there. It did reach me. I hated that it would remain in her heart and would never dissipate._

_I noticed her stance while painting. Her back was curved; her legs were apart like those of men; and her right free hand rested at her right thighs with her arms bent outwards. It was very unlikely since the last time I saw her paint—which was when she was still a junior in college, a time when my schedule was not that much of a pain—two years ago. At that time, her back was straight, her legs folded close, her hands seemed delicate. _

_I asked her, "Nee-san, do you really have to open your legs that much?"_

_She was used to work alone and demanded it clearly to everyone, which surprised me: she allowed me inside her workroom._

_She answered calmly, further surprising me . . . just look at the painting she was doing: "Only this way I could be most comfortable, Touko. I could not do it any other way." Then, for afterwards, she induced a small laughter, which was rare now to see. She asked quizzically, "Do I look bad like this?" motioning her stance with her hands._

_I smiled back, joyful of that small smile that rarely appeared. And it appeared before me._

"_No, you look very picturesque."_

—_Matsudaira Touko (1997)_

* * *

CHAPTER 9:

* * *

The sound of jazz being played by a live band. People in formal costumes were dancing. Several associates of the Ogasawara Zaibatsu as well as other benefactors of the gallery were there, mingling.

There was still time before the main event—the painting to be presented was still hidden in a pure white cloth, hanging where Fukuzawa's lost work used to reside.

Mizuno Youko was drinking her second helping of the champaigne being distributed by several waiters roaming around. This was a black-tie party inside the vast Nihonga section of the gallery, and interestingly, she was invited by Sachiko herself. It was a few months ever since she'd last seen her kouhai, and that was entirely about business. Youko thought that being Sachiko's grandfather's employee had taken too much of her time, but seeing Sachiko now, she thought otherwise. She was glad seeing her petite soeur quite happy with her husband now. She watched Sachiko propped her arms to her husband in such a comfortable way. However, even with all the happiness emanated by the couple, particularly of her husband, she traced a little of nervousness in Sachiko.

Fukuzawa Yumi. Everyone wondered what happened to her until the news about her lost painting broke out in television. It had been too many years since she had last seen her (she thought that it had been since Lillian U), and that was when Yumi was still a budding art student. But when she heard from Sachiko that Yumi left for Kyoto several years ago was the last time she had heard about her.

(So, this is where Yumi-chan works. So does Sei.)

She felt a trace of acid in her mouth. She too, had not heard from that woman for a long time. It seemed that Yumi-chan had acquired the stealth that Sei innately had.

(How is she now? If she worked here as Sachiko had told her a while ago, then where is she? Is she late again? That woman never changes.)

"Mizuno Youko. It's not you to stare at space."

"Torii Eriko. It's not you to disturb me for your entertainment."

"It's Yamanobe Eriko for you."

"Finally. I thought it'll take you forever to snag that professor."

Both giggled. They greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek, and looked for a spot in the gallery that was much farther from the band and the dance floor. After all, they wanted to talk, after such a long time from being apart. Youko was able to get nibblings for the both of them, and as they situated themselves to be wallflowers, they started their conversation.

"I have no idea why I am here. Maybe a little bit." Eriko mumbled.

"Liar. For me, it doesn't matter. Seeing the news about Yumi-chan's lost painting encouraged me to see her again. After all, this is where she works. Receiving a personal invitation from Sachiko, I guess she wanted Yumi to be surrounded with old friends at the time like this." Youko reasoned.

"True. Although, I haven't seen Yumi-chan around. Just the usual familiar faces. Like Rei there. And Shimako-chan and Noriko-chan there." Eriko supplied as she subtly pointing out their underclassmen back in high school. "They sure changed a lot over the years."

"That is inevitable. Change is the only constant thing in the world." Youko stated as she sipped from her glass.

They observed quietly, vowing to themselves never to call out to their acquaintances. They just let people passed them by, unless one of their little soeurs approaches them. And they did. One by one, they emerged into their fields of vision and moments later, the pair composing of Youko and Eriko became a group of former Yamayurikai members, adding Rei, Sachiko, Noriko, and Shimako.

They were all looking for the painter. And as much as Youko hated to realize, there was more to Sachiko's letter the moment she asked her little sister about Yumi-chan. Sachiko was hiding something. She prodded more, asking if Sachiko was still in close touch with Yumi-chan, but she just held a smile and answered vaguely. When Youko observed Shimako and Noriko's reactions, they too had not seen the celebrated painter for a long time. So was Rei; however, she told them that Yoshino had been part of the investigation of Yumi's missing work-of-art. After that, she said nothing more, much to the surprise of Eriko, who was anticipating more from her petite soeur. She too, was quite anxious as Sachiko.

And Eriko and Youko confirmed their speculation the moment Sachiko asked for a private time with Rei, her best friend.

On the other side of the room, Yoshino scanned the guests. Three of the four surnames listed were found here in the party. Both the Touma (Sachiko and her husband, Ryu), Ogasawara (Sachiko's parents, sans the grandfather), Hinomura Minato (Yumi's and Sei's boss) were there, mingling with their own social circles. The last one, that phantom name—Kinomoto—still have not appeared in the roster of guests that was being handled by one of Sachiko-sama's subordinates, much for her annoyance.

(Not that she expected the dead to be here. Or expecting someone of that name to be here, at all.)

Yoshino had talked to Touma Sachiko days before the event, asking her questions related to Yumi's lost painting. She entertained her, but when Yuuki met them halfway of the questioning, the young police officer was trying his best to act professionally in front of Sachiko. The insurance agent could tell that the cop was fuming, trying hard not to smash something to the person that they were interrogating. Yoshino realized that Yuuki knew about Yumi's unrequited love for her grande soeur. But, why is it that Yuuki decided that _that _was Sachiko's fault? It was not his business; therefore, it was not his position to be angry with Sachiko because of Yumi's unrequited love.

Then it occurred to her: there was more to Sachiko and Yumi's relationship. There was more to it that caused Yuuki, Sei and even Touko to be hostile whenever Sachiko was mentioned.

She asked Yuuki about Yumi's personal life back in college, and reasoned to him that it was important that she knew the history. And there was. Yuuki was the one who delivered Sachiko's wedding invitation to Kyoto and found Yumi crying in the arms of Satou Sei. Back in college, he was already suspecting a secret intimacy between those two women, but seeing that Yumi had not told him anything, it meant to him that it was all a speculation. He said that they were very close; often spending too much time with each other, but for Yumi's privacy, Yuuki never asked about that.

(He said back at Kashiwagi's place that he hated it when the surnames "Touma" and "Ogasawara" appeared in the list. He hated it that Sachiko may be prodding into Yumi's life once more.)

And he was right. She did. If Yoshino did not corner Yumi that night in Kashiwagi's place, she would not know anything. And nothing would make sense.

* * *

_Several days ago_

It was already late at night when Yoshino decided that she would not put up with the bullshit that Yumi was projecting all day. They were here to investigate about those names, and for that, she needed Yumi's testimonial about her relationship, business and/or personal, to those four names.

She knew that this night, even though the house had guests, Yumi would still be visiting her workshop even at the dead of the night. So, Yoshino waited there, waiting for the right moment that Yumi would be all by herself—without that nosy Sei, or her overprotective brother and his girlfriend, or that creepy old housekeeper, or her enigmatic employer.

And there she was, admiring and just staring at one painting that she was restoring. Yoshino decided to open the door without even knocking. As she expected, Yumi quickly recoiled from her stupor and covered the painting with a white cloth.

"I knew you'd be here."

Yumi tartly replied. "Here I am."

Yoshino demanded flatly. "I need to talk to you."

It took several daunting seconds for Yumi to answer the question, but Yoshino already anticipated that she would flatly ignore her. Surprisingly, Yumi replied. "For your investigation?"

She fully opened the doorway. "For the investigation."

Yumi sufficed a sigh. She knew the reasons behind their visit—it would be surprising if they would never discuss the investigation of her lost painting. She knew that the visit won't be just to check if she were alright, but to sleuth to her stuff. She had missing pages of her research, after all. They did not even bother to nicely ask her. Was she that scary? But she'd forgive them. "All right."

Yoshino tapped the slide door twice. "Why don't we go outside? This room suffocates me."

(Fine). "Whatever."

When they reached the Japanese garden, Yumi sat on one of the flat rocks that were aligned along the pathway. They happened to be situated in one of the plum trees. Yoshino joined her. For a few minutes, they said nothing, just admiring the cloudless sky and the moon above. Then, Yumi broke the silence.

"What do you want to talk about?"

Yoshino then pulled out a small piece of paper that she knew would come in handy. Written there were the names of four of their unofficial suspects. Yoshino knew that it would better if she would not be as talkative and unyielding with this interrogation; after all, she needed Yumi to the one talkative, not her. If she put up the front of arrogance, Yumi would not talk. "Here," she said, "these are the names that we've found to be having dealership with Nihonga paintings in the last years. I want to ask you about your relationship with them."

Yumi snorted as she read the names. "You _know_ my relationship with a certain then Ogasawara and now Touma."

Yoshino shifted to face Yumi. She grabbed both her friend's shoulders and said, "I _know_. But I need to know more. The soeur relationship would be just too general . . . too shallow. I know that there's more in that. Your painting was stolen not for money; it was stolen to get some sort of a message across. It wants something from you, something personal. I hope you'd understand that."

Yoshino released her from her clutches. The painter watched the dark sky and sighed. "Personal? Everything that I did, am doing, and will do is very personal."

"I noticed. I want to hear you out. No matter how long it takes. Even if I have to wait all night."

Several minutes had passed.

Then, Yumi whispered. "I'm going to tell this once. Use what I am about to say at your investigation's convenience. I will not include unecessary things. We are not having a fucking girl-talk; I'm the one giving out information. Raw facts. I don't want to hear your opinion nor a reaction to whatever I'm about to say. Deal?"

"Deal."

Yumi took a deep breath.

"Well, Ogasawara. There are four Ogasawara that I've known: it's Sachiko, her parents and her grandfather. But the person that I was closest to was Sachiko. She's my grande soeur and my sempai at Lillian U. We always stayed close together until she graduated from college. We used to be lovers since uni days." She stated monotonously, devoid of any emotion. Somehow, she tried not to show that this was killing her. But she had to know who stole it.

_I knew it!_ Yoshino tried her best not to react with that one. "I don't know about that."

"You appear not surprised." Yumi grunted. "It's not your or anyone's business. But we wanted to take it on the low. Even our parents knew nothing about it. It ended before I went here in Kyoto as an exchange student. That time, she was already betrothed to another man that his grandfather picked for her. I tried to convince her to end the engagement and run away, but it was not that easy. We parted ways after I went for Kyoto. I haven't seen her for years."

"Did she ever visit you?"

She decided to be more open. "Twice."

"When?"

The memories still burnt in her brain. "Two days after my painting was stolen. The other was two days before I went here for the commission."

(Not to speak any fucking opinion!) "What was her purpose?"

Yumi snorted at the memory. "To see if I were fine. I told her the obvious. But I dismissed her anyway. I do not want to share oxygen with her in one room. Anything but that."

"What about her parents? Her grandfather? How is your relationship to them?"

She looked at her quizzically. "Her parents? The usual. You see, we kept our relationship from everyone. I had good terms with her parents, but after the engagement, I have not seen them since. Maybe they sniffed out from the grandfather that Sachiko and I were having an affair, so they decided not to speak to me. The grandfather found out about us, you see. And after all, they were all controled by that old man. Rich as they may be, they still were in the clutches of the grandfather. The parents are, and more so with the sole heir of the corporation.

"In other words, all of the Ogasawara and I had very bad blood between us."

Yoshino was not getting her story the way she perceived it would be. "What made you not to retaliate? Did they do nothing to keep your former relationship with Sachiko a secret? Did you . . . ever try to expose it?"

Yumi heartily laughed at Yoshino's words. "You see, I just don't want to hear from them. When she called it quits, that's it. At that time, I didn't have the power to change everything around me. Real power. But, I won't stoop that low." _Just like Sachiko._

"Then, how about his husband? Touma Ryu?"

She tried not to cringe. "I haven't seen him. Nor talk to him. Nor spill his guts out."

"Do you think he knew about your former liaison with Sachiko?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. It's Sachiko's discretion whether to reveal it to her husband or not. But on second thought, maybe I should drop a line, if we happened to meet. You know about the party, right?"

"Haven't you thought that this would affect your career? The family could retaliate and even destroy you because of that."

"Maybe . . . maybe not. Touma will just be my target. It would be stupid to announce it in public. Let him suffer, I guess, being one of the few who knew about it."

"Don't do it."

The painter rolled her eyes. (Of course not.) "I did not ask for your opinion."

She defeatedly conceded. "Well then, what about Hinomura?"

"Oh, you know about it. Hinomura Minato is my boss. The owner of the gallery."

"What about the other Hinomura?"

That made Yumi fliched a little. "His uncle . . . he was my former mentor. I was under his advisory when I became an exchange student here in Kyoto. He and I . . . we had a rough past."

"That case?"

Yumi fought the urge to stay quiet. "Yes. It was a fight of intellectual property. We shared the same areas of research back when I was doing my thesis. He had a publication in an art journal that did not have any reference from my work. It became an issue when another art journal had published my thesis before that. Then it started. The thing was that he stole some vital research material that I produced and put it on his paper. I don't know the details or the law behind the proceedings, all I know is that it was resolved. It was a bad memory that I myself don't want to disclose. But you could read them anyway."

"How about the nephew?"

Yumi smirked. "He was the one who helped me after everything. We were colleagues even before that. He just happened to have a gellery here at Musashino, and I applied as his contractual worker. True enough, he doesn't like his uncle's ways. He's someone that doesn't really apply to my current view about human beings."

"What happened to that mentor?"

"Well, I don't know. Maybe, he stayed at another university. He was a valuable part of the faculty. I tried not to deal with bastards like him." Yumi kicked a small pebble on the ground.

That did not sound right . . . just from the tone of her voice.

"Did you ever have more than the student-teacher relationship?"

"We . . . we had. It was also a reason why the trial took so long. I was reluctant to fight. He used that as an avenue to shut me up. But I was helped from colleagues that had the same problem with him. It became part of my illustrious reputation in the art world."

"Now, what do you think about Kinomoto?"

Yumi looked once more at the piece of paper. She noticed the characters of the surname, but curiousity paved a way . . . why was Kinomoto in the list of suspects? Setsuna was long dead—hell, everyone in the clan was dead, and how did that name came out this time? She looked for an avenue to gauge what Yoshino knew about the Kinomoto. She started with the famous ones. "Hinata? Junko?"

She flatly provided. "Both."

(That was an easy question.) "Role models. Badass Nihonga painters. Current commissions. Nothing more."

Yoshino began to examine her fingernails. (She too was beginning to produce her own trap for Yumi.) "There was a rumor that Hinata had a daughter."

"Oh, that. I said before, I don't know anything about that."

She then dropped her cards. "Setsuna. That painting that you've been staring at a while ago. That was Hinata's daughter's work, wasn't it?"

"Setsuna?"

"I saw the seal. If you're told by your employer not to disclose any information, that's fine with me. All I needed was the name. And I have it."

Yumi cursed at herself. She was careless a while ago. "What are you going to do about it?"

Yoshino decided to take the conversation without any design of trapping Yumi to her own words. If Yumi assumed that she was using some sort of a mindbending crap to get information, she'd refuse to talk more. "Someone is using that surname to buy art works. It's not a legitimate name, considering that Hinata was the last heir. We just noticed that discrepancy when we tried to extract list of buyers from your gallery. It's not entirely legal, but that's how I work. Besides, I'm not under the jurisdiction of the Musashino PD. Isn't that lovely?"

Yumi then agreed silently. "But that might not be related at all to whoever stole my painting. You are digging something else. But you're good at your job. I hope that will reflect on your current assignment."

"I want your work back. I have five percent, which is quite big."

Yumi looked at her wristwatch. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Yes, I do." Yoshino replied with a smile. It was getting a lot colder; therefore, they left the garden quietly. When, they were about to separate, Yoshino added, "She's a bitch."

"I did not ask for your opinion."

* * *

_At Present_

She never hated going to the gallery. It was her home turf, the kind of place she expected to be the most comfortable. But now, she grimaced at the sight of people in their crisped formal dresses—men in their bowties, women in their long gowns and sparkling jewelries. She hated the glamour of it all, but she could not help it; the woman beside her, holding her arms, was as impeccable was everyone else.

"Sei, I don't think this is a good idea."

"It's part of your job. I could pay you for just attending."

"Pimping me out? Please. I rather am at damned Kyoto doing my commission than be here. It's soffucating me."

"You have no idea." She said. Then she felt a grip on her hand, which was rested in his arms. "You're quite talkative. Not sick. Brave this out. We'll see if Ogasawara's painting really is at par with _The Passing Wind._ To be its replacement. Are your pride not pounded with that kind of gesture? Really, now." She challenged.

(Jerkass.) Yumi scowled. Satou Sei really could tick her out.

This shit is full of the Ogasawara smell. She hatefully remembered those times when she was invited to parties such as this one—Sachiko had convinced her to attend because she'd take care of everything. Now, every glamorous party such as this reminded her of her nights where she used to do this, and almost enjoyed them . . . because Sachiko was there.

(Tough it out.) She knew she'll see her again here. What a sly strategy, even inviting some of the Yamayurikai of their time just so to make her tone down her anger if she happened to bump on her. Not to lash out on her, or pluck her eyes out on sight. She saw Shimako-san and Noriko getting a good look at _The_ _Deformed. _She noticed Youko-sama, Eriko-sama, and Rei-sama talking at the far corner, drinking. Touko and Yuuki were dancing, enjoying their time. Thus far, she was thankful for having Sei around.

She hated this unprecedented reunion. Frustrating, indeed.

"Anyway, I'll go now. Enjoy yourself, Yumi." Sei took off before the painter could say anything. And after that, she felt foreign to the place she used to work everyday. She was surrounded with half of the people she did not know. She looked at the other top employees, but she tried not to get close to them. After all, rumors were still circulating about the new painting to be installed to replace hers. She could still not resolve her feelings with that.

(She could not handle those eyes that were looking at her, judging her, making stories about her.)

Lost in her thoughts, she did not notice familiar people surrounding her. Then, familiar faces—Toudou Shimako, Nijou Noriko, Mizuno Youko and Torii Eriko—encircled her. Her brain registered each face, thus a thought began to bud to her.

(So that's why Sei just bounced off.)

She had no choice but to greet them. She then bowed.

They were still the same; she noticed the same demeanor in Shimako's subtle voice and mannerisms, in Noriko's quick replies and guarded expressions, on the faint droopiness in Eriko-sama's eyes as she scanned her, and on Youko-sama's worried gaze at her. They never changed.

(Maybe this was because they did not see each other for a long time.)

Shimako asked Yumi for a little closeness such as a hug. Yumi, being surprised at the sudden ambush by the group was unable to decline and therefore was gently glomped by the woman. Did they even know that she's very uncomfortable now with the sudden closeness? Where was her attitude when she needed it? She looked at her surroundings, and detected some of her colleagues surprised at Shimako's sudden familiarity to her, when they knew that she was quite antisocial at present?

"Yumi-san, it's been a long time. We haven't heard a word from you." Shimako piped, gleeful at the sight of her former classmate.

"I . . . I—" Yumi cursed at herself. Shimako did not deserve a distasteful avoidance from her. Why was she still so fucking nice?

Eriko-sama began to supply, "You sure have changed, Yumi-chan. You remind me of someone so . . . rough around the edges."

Youko gulped.

That comment helped her regain composure, herself. Yumi then raised a brow, and unconsciously took a step away from the rest, "You don't say, Eriko-sama. You seemed very interested about that."

She was ready to dismiss herself from them, when two shadows joined them. When the grouped noticed the couple, they greeted them by thanking for the invitation. It was Sachiko and Ryu. Yumi's heart began to twitch in a manner that she felt coldness on her back, seeping to her head.

(She prepared for this.)

She stared at Ryu.

She looked at him with blunt eyes, examining the man who had stole Sachiko from her years ago, without any fight. He saw gentle eyes shining upon a well-chiseled face; his determined jaw had thin lips smiling. He was a head taller than Sachiko. He has a fine figure, a feature that most figure artists would look for in nude models.

He could be considered a prince, someone a typical princess like Sachiko would yearn for.

Then she quipped, "You can be a model for figure sketching. You really have fine, proportionate physique. Just for reference."

Either nobody heard that, or the rest were just so surprised they would not even utter a word.

His smile was very honest. "Fukuzawa Yumi-sensei, I am so honored to meet you." He bowed and reached out his arms for a handshake. "I really admire your works. Although I must say that it's really such a shame that I couldn't get one of your paintings to my private collection."

She was about to drop a venomous response, when suddenly Sachiko tugged on Ryu's sleeve and commented, "She's my kouhai back at Lillian, Ryu."

"Really, Sachiko? I didn't remember you mentioning that," He replied warmly to his wife.

"Can we talk for a moment?" Sachiko asked Yumi.

Yumi tried to weigh the advantages of talking to her once more. She looked at the people around them, watching their every move; Eriko-sama expecting some sort of a scene between her and Sachiko; Youko-sama looking at both of us with proud eyes; Shimako and Noriko smiling and admiring Ryu.

They knew nothing. Nothing of Sachiko and her past. It was all a memory between both of them.

She casted an indifferent look, and accepted her request. "Fine. Where do you want to talk?" She excused herself from everyone and walked away. She was heading to the elevator. Behind her was Sachiko saying her temporary goodbyes to her husband and her friends. As soon as she caught up with the walking Yumi, she hurriedly said, "Your office, please."

* * *

Three helpings of the flute filled with liquor were not enough to calm her nerves down. If there was desperation inside her that wanted to come out—to manifest itself, she refused to acknowledge it. The fact that she stayed out of the picture when she noticed Youko's group heading towards Yumi was an indication that she was still afraid of facing them. She didn't know the real reason why . . . maybe she was just very conscientious about not seeing them for a very long time, or that she left an unfinished business with them that she knew she had forgotten along the course of time. Or for much simpler explanation; she just could not face them. She was afraid talking about her life just to fuel up a conversation or asking questions about theirs.

Many years had passed ever since graduation, but Yumi's words seeped into her mind, that she was not good in keeping tabs with people she usually met and sometimes shared a significant memory. She just kept on moving forward, saddened of the fact that she could quickly leave, to easily burn bridges without looking back. Maybe, it was a defence mechanism she had acquired over the years of emotionally draining experiences in such young age—the improbability for happiness to grow in a first true love, the improbability to stay with a person that she really cared about.

Or maybe . . . with all those thoughts that have been surfacing right now, in the middle of this party, the alcohol must be getting into her system.

"Can you still handle that glass?"

When she looked at the speaker, she swirled the contents of her glass, to justify, "Yeah, I guess."

Kashiwagi Suguru replied coolly. "Don't let me carry you to your way home. I won't volunteer for it, so handle your alcohol wisely."

Sei smirked. "Thanks, Gramps."

"Where is Fukuzawa-kun?"

Sei raised a brow. "The cop or the painter?"

"The painter."

She searched with her eyes for the corner where she left Yumi, "I don't know. I left her to mingle with some old friends from Lillian," and seeing that Yumi was not there anymore, "but seeing them talking only to Touma Ryu, Sachiko and Yumi might probably alone now."

Kashiwagi took a sip from his own glass. "That woman was especially clingy to her husband."

"I don't care." Sei sourly commented. She was quite sure; it was all just an act. She emptied the contents of her glass, as she noticed a waiter coming near them.

Kashiwagi, too, emptied his. "Don't be overprotective of your kouhai. She can handle herself."

When the waiter approached them, both of them replaced their empty glasses with filled ones.

She grittily countered. "Not when that woman is around."

He looked around, observing the people around them. He said, almost in a whisper, "Are you quite sure about that? You underestimate her."

"I _know_ her."

He looked around, as if she was not there, but he rebutted with a blank face. "Your emotions are getting better of you. This is not you, Sei-san. You planned to be supportive of her . . . reconciliation with her past. Am I correct?" Then, he took a tiny sip from his glass. "Surely, having another encounter with Ogasawara Sachiko would help her, hearing that she used to be Fukuzawa's grande soeur, a special mentor in highschool. I am unaware of the details but seeing them so stiff whenever they happen to meet, it was just so hard to ignore."

Sei's eyes turned into slits. "What do you know anyway?"

"I am an obsever, Sei-san. I know how to read subtexts, subtleties, messages hidden under your thick skin." Then, he put his free hand to a side pocket of his pants and started to walk away. "And I know _you_, Sei. Don't consider Fukuzawa-kun to be like you. So be watchful of your actions."

* * *

Yuuki was swirling the contents of his glass as he spoke. "So, you are part of the Touma's staff."

Kobayashi finished nibbling and gulped. "Yes. You seemed not happy about that. I mean, the pay is good."

"Let me ask you something," He sniffed a whif of the wine as his glass suspended in front of his lips. "How long since you work for them?"

Kobayashi seemed unguarded. Yuuki took advantage of this.

Masamune answered casually. "Ever since graduation. It was hard at first, but good luck and perseverance took me to higher positions in Touma-sama's staff."

"Did they . . . his wife normally partake to events such as this one? You know, about Nihonga paintings and stuff." He searched for the woman—the topic of their conversation—but it seemed that she'd gone somewhere. She wasn't attached to her husband's arms anymore.

Masamune looked at him, a little cautious for a moment, but he shrugged. "Well . . . his husband is very fond of it. Though, I remembered her to be very well versed on the area. She was, after all, Yumi-san's sempai even back in highschool. Being close that they are, I'm sure she'd picked up something from Yumi-san."

Then, Yuuki's friend brushed off crumbs of a cracker he ate a while ago from the cuffs. Afterwards, he fixed his bowtie. "But, it's very surprising. I haven't heard anything about Yumi-san from Sachiko-sama, even though I've been in her staff for a very long time. Or maybe I just could not ask such personal question at my boss. Even though we had a short history of back at highschool."

"I see."

"I could not even get really near her, you know . . . whenever we talked, it was always about business."

Yuuki looked sharply at Masamune, devoid of the easy tone he had a while ago. "Then, how about the grandfather?"

Masamune extracted a white handkerchief from his sidepocket and removed his eyeglasses. He cleaned the lenses as he murmured. "This is just for you and me, for old time's sake. You don't want to fuck with him. Those rumors about him—how stern or scary that bastard is, I'm afraid that they might be correct."

"Did you even come across with him?"

He put his glasses, and when Yuuki looked at him, he was unable to see his eyes. The white reflected gleam upon his glasses was responsible for it. "Well, yes. In very rare instances." Kobayashi said.

"Is he fond of Nihonga, too?"

"I can't tell." He shrugged. "Why, is this part of your investigation?"

"Investigation?"

Then, a woman snucked behind the detective. She presented two flutes, and took away Yuuki's empty glass. "Here." She noticed Masamune, and offered her glass to him. "Oh, hello, Kobayashi-san. It's been a long time."

A waiter happened to wander around their direction and collected their empty and unfinished glasses.

Masamune accepted the woman's offer. He stammered a bit, "Oi . . . eh, Matsudaira-san! Yeah, it's been a long time! How are you? From what I remember in senior high, you're going to medschool, right?"

Touko smiled warmly. "Yes, still am."

Masamune blushed a little. "Wow. Good, good." He adjusted his glasses as he recovered from the womanly and elegant view. He cleared his throat, "So, you and Yukichi . . . ?"

She took hold of Yuuki's arm and gleefuly announced. She finished Masamune's sentence, "Yes, we are. It's nice to see you again, Kobayashi-san. Shall we dance, Yuuki?" She asked in a low voice, just near Yuuki's left ear.

"Yeah, sure." He grinned at Kobayashi and gave him his glass. "Here, hold this, will you?"

Masamune grinned back. He muttered, "Lucky bastard."

They went at the middle of the dance floor, Yuuki taking his girlfriend in his arms as they swayed into the song. Touko whispered once more in his ear, "Kobayashi seems to be enjoying himself."

He looked down at her with a smirk. "I don't care about him; what I enjoy is this dance with you." He twirled her partner in sync with the music.

Touko could not help but dismissed the comment with eyes rolling. "_Mou,_ Yuuki. Do _not_ start."

Yuuki grinned playfully. "Fine, fine."

She just laughed.

"I wonder," The auburn-haired woman pulled herself close to her partner. "Where's Nee-san?"

He breathed out. "I decided not to look after her after the first five minutes."

She rested her cheek to his shoulders, facing his neck. "I decided not to check on her every five minutes. You see, I saw her leaving for the elevator. Guess who followed after."

"A random lover, perhaps?" He joked.

She did not laugh. "No, not just a random lover."

"Sachiko."

She tugged on their clasped fingers. "Don't. If we're always meddling in her affairs, she won't forgive you. She won't forgive anyone who would."

He looked down at her once again. "Then why did you let me know about it? Why didn't you just keep it to yourself?"

She looked at him with the fiercest of glares. "I know you don't want that."

"I understand." He smiled for added assurance.

* * *

(The hallway should be fine.)

They could still hear the busy sounds of the party, jazz music played by a live band. Still, Yumi braved herself once more as she walked away from the crowd. Behind her was Sachiko, walking gracefully, her evening gown swaying with the movement of her body.

She decided that:

"The hallway should be fine for both of us. I don't have my keys." Yumi said. "What do you want? You must be surprised that I even bothered attending this stupid party, thanks to my boss."

Sachiko stopped walking and took note on their large distance between each other. "I won't ask more from you, other than to stay until the end of the party."

"No one told me that."

Sachiko said carelessly, torn on how to convey this: "That's why I'm asking you." Should she speak it in a very determined manner? Or in a pleading one?

Yumi gritted her teeth. She exhaled a little too much of air from her lungs that she felt nauseous. She talked calmly, as she expected herself to be. "I told you before to stay out of my life. Now, you're doing all this crap, just to see me? What is this? Are you courting me again, just like how you asked me to become your petit soeur? Just like how you manipulated my emotions before—?"

Sachiko snapped. "I have no choice." Crushed, she whispered, "You won't listen to me."

Yumi rolled her eyes. (The little games they play.) "What excuses shall I have to endure? The past is past. We already made our choices. You chose to end everything we had before. I chose to ignore, but never to forget. Why aren't you satisfied with that?"

"Yumi . . ."

"Do not tell me that we're having the same conversation again."

"Just stay until the end. That's all I ask."

Outside, it was raining.

* * *

They parted ways after that. Yumi hoped that this night would be the last time that they'd see each other. Even with such a short conversation, they both assumed a silent agreement between them. After this party, both will leave each other alone. They'd go on with their separate lives. If they bumped to each other, there would be no more spiteful look in their eyes. It was a silent separation.

As soon as Sachiko returned to the party, she went to the makeshift stage to signal the host to gather everyone's attention.

Yumi, who was farthest from the stage, watched the host do his job, often commenting about their boss, Hinomura Minato, for being allowing them to display the yet-to-be-presented painting, which was loaned by Touma Sachiko herself. When Minato was called on stage, he expressed his sadness for Yumi's lost painting—hoping that it would be returned soon—and motioned for good luck and safe investigation at Fukuzawa Yuuki and Shimazu Yoshino. He also remarked a serious note for Yumi and sent a cryptic message that made Yumi raised her (sixth or seventh) glass of wine.

When, Sachiko was called to own the stage, she stated her reasons for allowing her a very personal work of art to be shared in the public. Yumi watched her intently at the back, particularly sensitive for things that Sachiko should not be revealing about their personal lives. She was, after all, was talking about Yumi.

"Many people didn't know that Fukuzawa Yumi and I were schoolmates in Lillian Academy, wherein I used to be her sempai . . ."

Sachiko was telling the general aspects of their high school life as if it were yesterday—as if they have been close friends forever, as if they're seeing each other on a daily basis. That made Yumi bite her lip, struggling not object anything that Sachiko had been saying in front of their friends, colleagues, business partners and bosses. And as Yumi observed from the audience, they were surprised by the information that Sachiko and she were seours in Lillian.

(She did not ever give that information. Never in idle conversations. To bury the past, maybe. A past never told is a past that never exists.)

Some of her superiors in the gallery gave her evil eyes for conceiling her acquaintance and affiliation to the heiress of the Ogazawara Zaibatsu. Deciding not to anger them more, she decided to shrug it off.

(You did not ask me.)

She looked for Sei, to at least have someone to share her thoughts with, but it seemed that she was rooted on her spot at another corner, farther away from Yumi. The painter could tell the resentment seeping out of Sei; it was obvious on how darkly she looked at the stage, her eyes glowing silver.

The best way for Yumi's situation, was to ignore, ignore, and ignore. After this, Sachiko will never bother her—which she looked so forwardly. After this night, she would resume to her work, mending Kinomoto artworks as if they were the last major commissions she could ever have in her career.

(She wished that time could run much faster than before.)

Then, she felt silence ensued.

A bleak, yellowish spotlight from nowhere was pointed at a stand covered with white cloth. Sachiko was already hidden under the shadows, but her hand was still holding a corner of the cloth. Now, the mysterious painting would now be revealed to the world—the painting that her boss, Hinomura Minato, said that would par with _The Passing Wind_. Yumi braced herself for its possible grandeur. Hinomura's eyes were very keen to exceptional works of art, particularly Modern Nihonga, and when he said that a painting is worthy of praise, he was right.

"An untitled masterpiece, from an un-named master . . ."

Then the cloth was discarded.

The medium of the painting was oil . . . a large portrait painting. It was sealed on a golden frame. Everyone looked at the subject, and there it was, stealing the spectators their voices.

It was a full-body portrait of an almost nude woman, covered partly by a red traditional kimono. She was sitting on wooden floor, her back resting on a pale, paper slide door. Her arms were covered by layers of kimono, but the skin of the rest of her body and her legs were all exposed. Her lower privates were partially covered with white silk obi, but the slopes were hinted there. Her legs were tightly folded, her feet covered with socks. The subject's face was slightly faced away from the observer and was shadowed, revealing only a portion of that woman's face. Her red lips were slightly apart, an invitation. But her eyes were looking directly out of the portrait and into the observer, glowing almost blueish back.

It was very titillating, erotic. Especially her eyes. But it was not fully nude. Her pose was not even outright provocative. She was just sitting there, a little laid back.

On the stage, Sachiko looked at Yumi—her eyes so full, expressive, as if nothing could broke her gaze at the young painter.

_I want to show it to the world, to tell them my feelings . . . that I truly and deeply love you._

While everyone was focused on it, no one noticed Sachiko stepped away from the stage and dashed towards the painter.

But she found Fukuzawa Yumi with tears flowing upon her red cheeks, with one hand on her mouth, trying not to voice out her anguish as she cried. Her other hand formed into a fist. Her shoulders were already convulsing. Yumi, seeing Sachiko approaching her, bolted from her position and rushed out of the party, out of the eyes of others. From everyone.

"Shit . . . I never learn . . ." Yumi hiccupped.

She headed out the front door of the gallery, dismissing the security who was warning her about the rain. She made it here by Kashiwagi's limousine; she had no choice but to hail a cab. She held her purse tightly. (Fucking high heels.) Rushing out of the building, down the steps then to the sidewalk, without turning back, her dress now being soaked by the downpour, she hoped dearly that a cab should soon be there in front of her by a great stroke of luck.

"Yumi!"

There, at the front entrance of the museum, Sachiko called for her. She looked back, even though she already saw headlights darting to her direction. But her vision was suddenly fading, maybe because of alcohol, or fatigue, or the rain. She did not even know. The wheels of the car shrieked as it tried to stop. She did not even notice that the car halted right beside her as her world faded away, with Sachiko as the last object of her sight. She felt arms supporting her, preventing her to drop onto the ground.

The rain was still pouring, and she was unconscious.

Sachiko looked at the man who rushed out of the car and caught Yumi just on time. He was sporting a bowtie . . . an evening formal wear. On his other hand was an opened black umbrella, protecting them against the rain. He was fixedly staring at Sachiko for what it seemed to her was such a long time. Then, he gently put Yumi inside, grabbed her purse from the wet ground and left.

Sachiko said breathlessly, "It has to be this way, Yumi."

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N: **That first part wherein Touko was narrating an account of the past, I based it on a scene in Aoi Hana.

While watching the English dubbed of Utena, I began to think that the Yumi/Yuuki tandem in this fic is a little similar to Kozue/Miki. Particularly in the Akio Car arc. Except for the implied incest part. (Oh, and Juri . . . oh, Juri, what a lovely woman you are.)

About this chapter: I've been wondering how you readers feel about Ryu. I debated to myself a lot about his character, whether to keep his jolly demeanor from you, but I decided that he should have a little screen time. Yes, he seemed to be a nice guy, based from Sachiko's narration in Chapter 2.

Thank you for reading! I hope I'll see some reviews!


	10. Chapter 10

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_I always wonder why you never drew me naked before. I asked you once during a random all-nighter in the university library, and with your signature face of surprise, you looked up the ceiling and said, "Oh, yes, Sachiko. I never did, did I?" I thought you were innocent and very charming. In our private conversation, I asked you the reason you never drew me in nude, and you wondered too. Because of it, you insisted that I should be a model to one of your personal works, a masterpiece that you would never show to the public, or to any school exhibition._

_You said that you wanted me partly robed with the traditional kimono. The season should be early autumn, imagining that you preferred its lighting to spring. You also insisted that the location should be in any traditional house. I said that Kyoto would be nice for our little experiment. My family had several properties in Kyoto; it would not be a problem._

_When we were in the location, you immediately prepared your art materials. You demanded that you should sketch me first on the first day (a rough draft), and then paint me on the second. You said that you wanted it to be perfect. You situated me outside and I sat, rested my back on a paper slide door, the sun directly hitting me from the west. You instructed me of the pose that I should assume; of how my kimono should artistically drape only the slopes of my shoulders, accentuating also the kimono's different layers, as well as the frame of my body. The hems were sprawled and spread on the wooden floor. You also placed the obi to partially cover my groin. The rest of my body—my neck, collarbone, breasts, abdomen, and thighs—were exposed to the afternoon glaze of sunlight. You also told me face away from it, thus, covering a portion of my face. Then, you told me to look at you, and only you._

_That night, you confessed to me that you couldn't take it anymore. You tried to be as objective and professional all afternoon, trying to extract my picturesque essence and implant it to your ground without touching me. That it drove you wild with adulterated thoughts. I felt the same, as well. That night, you made love to me in such a slower pace than before . . . touching and tasting as if memorizing every part of me all over again, like a sculptor furnishing a marble statue. Everything is smooth and soft to the senses, you said. You never gave me chance to reciprocate. That night, I was so spent just by feeling everything on my end._

_It gave me a mystic glow, you commented once._

_Thus, I became your model for two days. After you got the image that you wanted, you proceeded to complete it with the pigments. Afterwards you gave it to me as a gift. I noticed that you never signed it with your name, neither giving it a title; I insisted that you should brand it with your seal, but you declined._

_You told me never to let anyone see this. Not until we could say freely that, we love each other. That I truly and deeply love you._

_That moment, I want to show it to the world, to tell them my feelings. That I was that woman in the painting. And you, Fukuzawa Yumi, was its painter. I truly do._

—_Ogasawara Sachiko (1993)_

* * *

CHAPTER 10

* * *

It started after Yumi became the Rosa Chinensis. Graduation simply could not keep them apart, and as Yumi realized the distance between them, she felt that she had lost greatly with Sachiko's leaving. It was not as if she was not herself after Sachiko left Lillian High School behind—it was more of the pain that she felt whenever she and Sachiko would accidentally see each other. Sachiko was only at the other side of the fence, but as time went by, Yumi's desire to see her older sister grew.

It was not just a heightened and warped admiration for an older sister; it was beyond perverseness.

Yet, she kept her feelings for herself. She knew that time would surely put balm upon her unrequited love, and diminish its hold upon Yumi's heart. She wanted it that way, since she knew for herself that she was still stuck in the past. Maybe if Sachiko did not leave, if high school was a matter made for a lifetime, maybe, she would not feel much despair.

Until one time in winter, she accidentally saw Sachiko in front of the Lillian gates. It was the eve of Christmas, and it was already late. She was the last one left in the mansion—she insisted everyone to leave early after the party, with the excuse that she still had something to do. Even her little sister was not spared from her request, although Touko formidably opposed leaving her onee-sama alone. She only left the building when the security guards roaming around the campus noticed the light upon the second floor.

She found Sachiko waiting for the last bus to arrive. It was already late, almost three hours before midnight. When she saw her standing there by herself, her heart suddenly was heavy of the feelings she had been harboring two seasons since. "Onee-sama."

She greeted her with a smile. However, she saw that Sachiko was just forcing herself to do such, therefore, without thinking twice, she asked immediately, "Is something wrong?"

They sat at the bench situated at the bus stop. The last bus seemed to be taking long, which was not supposed to happen. Still, she was glad to see her onee-sama on Christmas Eve. She was still not answering the question. This did not matter to Yumi; she was eager to be the first one to break the silence by telling Sachiko the events that happened that day.

"Oh, Onee-sama, the bus is there! We can go home now," She reluctantly said, even though she still wanted to stay at the bus stop. She stood up to meet the vehicle, when she felt a tug upon her dark coat.

"I don't want to go home." Sachiko said.

The bus stopped before them. Yumi smiled, even though she did not understand what happened to her grande soeur. "Well then; where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere."

"Alright." She held Sachiko's hand, and it seemed more natural than all the skinship that they shared before. "Let's go, before the bus leaves us."

The bus was almost empty, which was very unlikely—last-shift buses should have been filled with people who took the last bus to get to their homes. Especially on Christmas Eve. But as some sort of unknown reason, Sachiko and Yumi had the chance to choose on which seats to take. They took the spot with least people surrounding them.

It took Yumi guts to ask her onee-sama about her problems, the fact that their nearness was beginning to create a strange heaviness upon her chest. For some reason, she wanted to get away from her, but to embrace her at the same time.

She knew that as time went by, her love for Ogasawara Sachiko was becoming heavier, with desire that she never felt before. Maybe she realized it after Sachiko left. Maybe she could not take it the moment she left for the university.

They were in the same campus, yet, she felt that she was halfway around the world.

Two seasons without hearing her voice made her incomplete, even with her friends and Touko around.

Sachiko's room in her heart became too big that she felt emptiness.

"Onee-sama," she gulped after muttering the manifestation of their established relationship, "Why don't you want to go home?"

Sachiko, who was looking outside the empty and dark scenery, looked at her with blank eyes. "I don't want to see him."

"Ogasawara-sama?"

Sachiko nodded. Yumi discerned; it was about her engagement. Whenever she mentioned her grandfather, the matter about him never changed. His grandfather had been very stubborn about selecting the proper man to be his grandson-in-law, and until now he was still selecting among hundreds of eligible bachelors. That was why Sachiko was worried; her fiance could be anyone with immeasurable influence, heaps of money, and old family history. Even though the general population of Japan, it comprises only a few percentage of the social pyramid, still—it could be anyone.

She was for the taking—by the highest bidder.

His grandfather had been very finicky about this matter, and after all the years of uncertainty, he brought it up again. As if to remind Sachiko that she should check her neglect to her responsibilities for the family, he thought that she was given too much freedom to forget them.

For that last part, it was true. Ever since she entered senior high school, she had been demanding her little taste of freedom.

"He's reminded me again last night. I could not even get away from his grasp even after I entered college."

Yumi could only ask her, "Do you really have no choice about your future?" She asked her bluntly, as if to tell herself that Sachiko's answer would determine whether to throw away her feelings for the senior, or to retain it in her heart, and wait. To wait until she's ready.

Sachiko looked at her, with pain in her eyes. "He knew my weakness. He knew that I'd always decide for the sake of the family rather than any other matter. He always exploits that. He lets me wander off, but whenever he commands for me, it felt that I'm returning to a very cramped cage."

Sachiko did not answer Yumi's silent question. Yumi tightened her hold onto her Onee-sama. "Where do you want to go?"

The university student rested her head upon Yumi's shoulder. "Whatever you have in mind."

They headed to a playground near Yumi's house. When they reached their destination, everything was quiet. At this time of the night, everyone was home; no one would even bother staying there.

It was cold too.

Sachiko went for the swing. They both sat, and when Yumi was about to swing her seat, she noticed that Sachiko was not doing the same. Sachiko breathed, "As a child, I only sit on swings; I never brace myself to push it. I thought at first, that this fear of scraping my knees because of accidents would grow on me, but until now, I fear on swinging it."

Yumi was surprised with the secret Sachiko was revealing. "What made you fear it?"

"Watching others having accidents because of swings, I suppose."

Yumi was confused; she also witnessed the situations similar to that, and even experienced it herself, but those were not barricades for her not to enjoy such childhood privilege. "Is that all?"

Sachiko chuckled. She clasped her hands tightly at the two thick chains supporting her seat, and said, "My grandfather told a story about swings that made me more afraid of it. That they break easily."

Yumi thought of the notion as ridiculous. "Onee-sama," she stood from her swing and walked until she was behind Sachiko. She put her hands upon her onee-sama's shoulders, and said cheerfully, "Look at the chains, and to which its ends are attached. You see? They are in perfect condition. Look how thick the chains are. Feel how sturdy your seat is. It's safe. And I'm behind you. Are the swing and I not that convincing?"

At some point, Yumi regretted that she submit to her impulse of getting too close to Sachiko. She felt that she was invading too much of Sachiko's personal space. Even though they're comfortable with each other, closing the distance between their faces, no matter what orientation or angle it may be, would cause less ease for Sachiko.

"Alright," Sachiko said, gripping the chains. "Push me."

And gently, Yumi did. It went in slow tempo, and as time passed by, she pushed harder. "I can feel the wind on my face. Why did I miss this Yumi? This simple joy? Why did I grow too stiff in at a very young age?" She laughed as Yumi pushed her repeatedly. "Yumi! Oh, what am I missing!" She cried out, amidst the silence of the park.

They laughed together, satisfied of the privacy of the empty playground.

When they were too tired to continue it, Sachiko requested Yumi to stop pushing her. Gradually, the swing stopped, with the aid of Sachiko's feet, breaking the momentum of the swing. "Hah, that was such a splendid experience." Sachiko muttered, as she huffed air in and out of her lungs. "Yumi, I could not imagine myself the happiest person without you."

Yumi stopped pushing her and she remained looking at her onee-sama's back. They were alone in the playground, yet as she felt their introverted situation among the rest of the population, she felt the desire to kiss her onee-sama.

Sachiko stood while panting. She about-faced and found Yumi looking at her, with her cheeks flushed and red. With three footsteps, Sachiko was able to get in front of Yumi, encircled her waist with one hand and clasped one of Yumi's hands with the other, and kissed her on the mouth.

Sachiko must have read her thoughts. Only that the uni student initiated it.

It was a simple touch of lips—Yumi tried not to open her mouth further, not asking more from her onee-sama. Amidst the building strata of snow falling from the skies, she never felt warmer. Their chests were pressing to each other, and Yumi wanted to pull Sachiko more to her body, to increase the heat, to feel the softness of her supple body. She wanted to press more of Sachiko's head to her, to retain the contact of their mouths, yet she only allowed herself to grasp for a sleeve of Sachiko's jacket. Sachiko tried to deepen the kiss—

Yumi felt that there was something wrong with it. She broke the contact. When she looked once more at Sachiko, she thought that she'd made the right decision; Sachiko was harboring the same sentiment and it was evident upon her face—that what they've done would not result to any bright future.

They were talking about Sachiko's engagement a while ago, now this. Yumi thought that this moment should be erased out of their memories, no matter how pleasurable she felt after experiencing it, no matter how desperate she was to keep it to her memory forever.

"I'm sorry," Yumi said.

Yumi expected Sachiko's next behavior; her onee-sama became cold and commandeering. "Yumi, I guess we need to go to your house. I need to call the mansion for the chauffeur to fetch me."

Calling the Ogasawara mansion for assistance was the clear indication of Sachiko's existence was confined to her family name.

Since then, Yumi was satisfied for them not to meet even though they were in the same campus. It was for security. She was afraid to confront her with her feelings; it's better to continue with her feelings hidden rather than pushing it upon Sachiko. She herself did not acknowledge it, although not directly. The mere fact that they did not even call each other to talk about it was tantamount to the decision to ignore what happened that night.

She was afraid to see her again. Not when her feelings were almost spilling to the brim, yet the person she needed to drink it was not there. It was such a useless effort to feel like she's bursting because of love, but without her most important person to witness it.

She felt despair as a consequence of filling her heart with love.

Until the day of Yumi's graduation. Everything changed ever since Yumi's graduation.

* * *

They were in the same university. They ate together during their vacant time; they rode the same buses even though one of them had their classes earlier than the other did. They belonged to different departments, yet this matter was nothing to them. They lied to their parents just to spend a weekend together and out of Tokyo, and they've done it repeatedly. Whenever something went not according to plan, they were patient; they compromised.

For three years, those belonged to the routine that they gladly accepted and enjoyed.

Yet, no one knew of the relationship. Every lie has been calculated for them not to be discovered. Truths were mixed with lies thus keeping their relationship secret from those who would not accept them.

And that includes Sachiko's grandfather.

"Why are we keeping this from everyone?" Yumi asked during one of the nights that they left for Kyoto for their love affair.

"Touko knows. Rei knows."

"My family—"

"Please—"

Yumi flipped Sachiko to her back and fastened the latter with her body. Yumi clasped her hands on Sachiko's and pinned them above the latter's shoulders. "I want to tell my family how much I love you. I want them to support us, and I yearn for that. I want everyone to know; I want us to be open about our relationship. I want to see that there's a bright future ahead of us. You promised years ago, that we'll fight for this, yet all this time, all we do is hiding!"

"Do you think I don't want that?" She looked at Yumi, who was now up. Her torso was not even covered with blanket. Sachiko sat up and tightly put her arms around her lover. "Just give me time, Yumi, please. Just give me time to tell my family."

She knew, at the back of her mind, that this would always be their problem. Yumi whispered. "Is he still bugging you about marriage?"

"No, but—"

Yumi embraced her back, while burying her head to Sachiko's neck. She whispered as she tried not to cry in the other's shoulder. "Sachiko, I don't want to lie anymore. I love you so much and I want to say it freely. As many times as I want to."

"I know. In time, Yumi. I promise."

Until Sachiko's graduation came.

They never lied to each other. They knew how to put on their innocent faces in front of other people; they were honest with each other, and they could not practice that outside their relationship. But there was one thing that Sachiko was not telling Yumi for almost a year.

"I'm engaged."

Yumi could not even breathe as Sachiko muttered the words out. They were in the same playground, at the same time of the night. Sachiko called her to meet her without even knowing the reason. Yumi just complied with everything and anytime Sachiko called for her. And now, she could not fathom what she was hearing.

"Yumi—"

She fought the impulse of growling that she felt her jaws becoming numb. "Do not come any closer. For you to tell me this now; what's happening here? Tell me."

"My grandfather knows about us all along."

Her confusion and anger was mixing up her throat she could not even control the words coming out of her mouth. "So? Isn't now the time to tell them formally about us? He saved us the effort of revealing ourselves to him. Is that why you're engaged?"

"I can't refuse him."

Yumi took a step to Sachiko, yet the latter flinched and moved away from her. "A year ago, he told me that he would introduce me to a man . . . a man of great influence . . . and until few months ago, meetings with that man were arranged by my grandfather. He clearly told me that he chose him as my future husband. Both families had agreed about the arrangement."

"Why didn't you tell that to me before? About that man?" Yumi demanded.

Sachiko bit her lip.

Yumi knew what was going to happen, therefore, she herself would stop whatever Sachiko would say. "No, Sachiko. I will fight for you! I'll wait for you until we convince them. I'll talk to him; I'll convince him too—"

Yet, Yumi saw Sachiko's eyes—they were the same the moment after their first kiss. They were blank, clearly hiding her true feelings. This would not deter Yumi, and with desperation, she reached out for Sachiko and embraced her tightly. "Sachiko, please, do not be cold—do not reject me . . . please, let us talk this through. We could devise a plan, anything! We could run away! After your graduation, we can run away! Somewhere they can't find us!"

"I could not refuse him. He's dying, Yumi." She told her in between sobs.

Yumi stiffened. How could she fight against a dying man's wishes?

* * *

Even at his deathbed, he did not allow Yumi to see Sachiko ever since their last meeting at the playground. Added to Sachiko's entourage were two bodyguards who watched her every move. There was never a time Yumi could catch a moment with Sachiko. She devised plans for them to talk without her guards. Yet, Sachiko herself was not cooperating. She avoided her. If it were not because she only had few weeks before her graduation, she would have transfer to different university. Her guards were enough to keep them apart.

Yumi tried to visit the mansion, yet a restraining order appeared before her. Even Touko, who was close to the family, was not allowed to be with the family for the time being.

She never gave up. She tried to talk to Youko-sama, yet, even with the intimidation of annulling their relationship as soeurs, Sachiko did not budge from her decision. No common friend was allowed to see the Ogasawara heir.

Yumi's mission was only to talk to Sachiko. Her only desire was to talk to the old, dying man, and convince him for the first and last time. If he still rejected Yumi after their talk, then she would respect the Ogasawara family's sentiment. Yet, with all her pleading, she was not given the chance. She did not even see him.

Until the time that Sachiko called again to meet with her. On the same place, the night she was about to depart to Kyoto. Yumi was at the usual playground, sitting on the swing as she waited for Sachiko. At the exact time of the meeting, a black sedan appeared at the gate of the playground—it's front light almost blinding Yumi's vision. She saw the chauffeur opening the passenger's seat, revealing Sachiko. She rejoiced at the sight of her lover, and when Sachiko was near the swing, Yumi bolted out to embrace her. Yet, she was stopped with a swing of a hand.

"You will not come closer. I came here to settle things between us."

"Sachiko—"

The Ogasawara heiress did not want to hear her voice. "What is your price?"

"What the you—?"

"How much is the worth for not bothering me again?"

Hearing no response from the art student, she continued. "You should have not bothered my family when we broke up. I told you that he's dying, what explanation should I give you? Isn't it enough that we had three years together? I am needed by my family. I held the responsibility of keeping that tradition. You should have not force yourself on anyone's doorstep."

"I DON'T EVER WANT YOUR MONEY!"

Yumi's chest could not handle Sachiko's words. She held her ground bravely, digesting everything she said. When she finished, Yumi cried. "I just want to convince him that there's always another option. That he'll consider your feelings. If you broke up with me because you're tired of me and your don't love me anymore, I could not stand a chance and fight, and accept defeat. But it's not the case! We're separated by things that doesn't concern us!"

"He's dying; it's his wish that I should be married."

"Is there no other way?" Yumi pleaded.

"Like I said, is three years not enough for you?"

She struck those words to her, leaving Yumi incredulous of Sachiko's words. She was never this stern, this cruel. She always thought otherwise. Sachiko, even at her worst mood, always feels like a calming wind. Then she understood, despite her reluctance to recognize this realization:

"You just—you used me. As a temporary escape from yourself and your family, you used me."

Yumi began to envelop herself deep in her own thoughts, her vision suddenly becoming blur. Sachiko's face began to blur too, as she her thoughts ran wild with conclusions after conclusions. "Is that it? You used me . . . I trusted you . . . I love you with all my heart, yet . . . ."

Then, her thoughts were interrupted by Sachiko's call and the flash of the sedan's light.

"How much will it take you to leave me and my family alone?"

In her building rage, the painter stepped closer to Sachiko and used her dominant hand, her left hand that used to carress her, to convey her undying love for her, to slap a cheek forcefully, ringing a violent sound to the silent playground in the dead of the night.

When she realized what she had done, she looked at Sachiko, involuntarily apologized to her as she put both her hands to her mouth. She chanted repeatedly in agony, "I'm sorry, Sachiko! I'm sorry . . ."

Sachiko's right cheek was almost blood red, and a very tiny streak of blood trickled from her the right side of her lips to her chin. She held no expression as she said, "It has to be this way." and proceeded to the sedan, leaving Yumi on her knees, crying.

Snow. It was Christmas Eve.

Later, the engagement was announced at Sachiko's graduation party, and the marriage was set a month after. She was in Kyoto, hopeful that her absence would make her beloved change her mind. She never believed anything that she said. She hoped that Sachiko would reject the marriage even when she heard the news once more from Sei, and even when she saw the invitation delivered by Yuuki.

Still, April came, and so was the news of their marriage. Yumi's heart died.

* * *

She lied.

He was not dying, and still held his position in the Ogasawara empire. Like evil weeds, men like him live longer. The common knowledge among Yumi's friends that he was near death was spread and circulated by Sachiko herself. She was so used to falsehood that she could even lie to her closest friends and to Youko, her onee-sama.

She was at Kyoto as an exchange student even at her final year in university. She knew of the news from Sei-sama, who happened to see her when the former was visiting an old art museum where Yumi was working part-time.

Since the marriage, everything about the Ogasawara group and Sachiko was shut out of Yumi's life, because she decided to move on. It was not out of bitterness, and it was sufficient for her not to break apart. Somehow, she understood Sachiko's reasons for breaking up with her. But hearing about Sachiko's lies—she felt that she was once again at the starting line. Before, she felt only the loneliness of losing Sachiko, but in her heart, she accepted her defeat. Sachiko's love for her family could not be denied, and Yumi accepted it. But hearing that she lied—she reverted back to the starting line.

One thing changed—her anger was seeping through her bones, galvanizing and cementing itself into the pores and crevices. She felt wrath, as if she could kill Sachiko with her bare hands. She wanted to avenge her pride.

Yet, with all her weaknesses, she cried all night in Sei's arms once more.

Sachiko was now holding one of the top managerial positions of the Ogasawara group. Her husband was CEO of another company, albeit smaller than his wife's. By the end of the year, the companies merged.

Yumi, who was working very hard to recover her heart from their failed relationship, was once again shattered to shreds after she knew what Sachiko had done.

She learned her lesson. It took her a long time to know it but at least she learned. The reason why she accepted the offer at Kyoto was to get away from Musashino, from Tokyo. Somehow, even with the small distance away from the other city, it worked. At first, it was hard to ignore what happened in the last months, but she made it through. Her anger was her motivation and inspiration.

At that time, she vowed stupidly to herself never to see her again. And that includes forgiving her.

* * *

_Present Day_

She woke up from a very vivid dream.

(That painting. Sachiko.)

_I want to show it to the world, to tell them my feelings . . . that I truly and deeply love you._

Yumi felt the coldness of the air conditioner upon her naked shoulders. When she moved, the blanket slipped down to her back. She felt clammy on her mouth, therefore adjusted her hands to wipe it. She saw the dim yellow light of a lamp on the other side of the bed, she tried to regain the fullness of her vision, and when she did, she saw a wide window, showing a panorama of the city lights on a dark background. Then, she saw a couch, facing that panorama, and a thin line of smoke emanating from a hand.

She shot up, and realized that she was naked. She covered herself frantically, and demanded in a low growl to the person smoking, "Kashiwagi? Where am I?"

A puff rose. "You're in one of my hotels."

She covered herself more with the blanket. She hesitated at first, but: "What did you do to me? Did you . . . ?"

"Fuck you? No." He replied flatly. Then, he puffed another smoke to the air. "Didn't you remember? You collapsed in the middle of the rain. I had no choice but to take care of you. I even took the liberty of drying your hair." Then, he added, "It's very uncomfortable to sleep with it being soaked."

Then, he rose up fro his seat, went to her, and sat on the opposite side of the bed, intently looking at her. She realized that he was wearing a set of pajama, although the only the bottom two buttons of his shirt was fastened.

He continued, "It's very hard to sleep on the couch, much more in this _very_ uncomfortable pajama. The cigarette did not even alleviate my discomfort. Not when there's a big, soft bed with a lady in the nude."

She gripped on the blanket, as she felt hot on her cheeks. "Fucking pervert." She heard a chuckle.

Then, she lied down again, wondering why she was not at all afraid of Kashiwagi. She felt suspicious about herself, trusting the man the moment he denied that he had his way with her. If she were being taken advantage of, she would have felt it. She was a light sleeper after all.

Then, she put her hands behind her head, adjusting herself in the comforts of the bed. "Jesus. I could go to hell with this one."

"Come on, say it." He too, lied down on the bed, with his hands beneath his head.

She sighed, as she watched the ceiling. "You're weird. Not taking advantage of a naked woman on your bed? That's like, not what a normal asshole usually does."

She saw him rolled his eyes. "I'm not a normal asshole."

"Nobility, then, is still alive in you, Prince?"

He refused to answer properly. "I have thought about it, while removing your clothes. Your figure is not bad. But I guess you won't be happy about it."

She huffed irritatedly. "Then why didn't you put some clothes on me? Another piece of that pajama or something."

"I thought of taunting you about it. But I did not execute my plan the last minute because I decided I don't want bad blood between us. Or, do you want to?" He uttered the last line very slowly, in the most provocative yet gentlemanly manner.

She heedlessly admitted, as she looked away. "No. Not at the moment." Then, she grinned at her honesty. "I judge potential mates by their skull structure."

"Do I pass?"

"You're not half bad."

He was unnaturally talkative and open.

(Maybe because he had not slept yet, as he claimed?)

Then, natural light from outside crept though the room. She had not realized that she woke up earlier than expected. She was surprised that even with the events that happened yesterday, she was calmer and relaxed. That made her worry—why was she feeling like this? On scenarios such as this usually come with a torrent of problems the moment she wakes up. She would have been expecting some sort of an incident that she'd regret for days and days. Yet, why was she feeling so at ease now?

(Maybe because she was thankful she did not have sex with his employer. That's it, she supposed.)

"Thanks."

He said while closing his eyes. "It's nothing."

"Do you have a T-shirt? Towel? Pants? I don't want to use the gown."

He replied lazily, obvious that he had lack of sleep. "Closet."

"Oh. Okay. I'll borrow. Can I use your bathroom?"

He murmured. "Sure."

"Thanks."

She removed herself from the bed, not bothering to cover herself with the blanket that was beneath Kashiwagi. She found towels, a black T-shirt and jeans inside a spacious closet. She also noticed that her gown, including her undergarments, was already placed in a hanger, already washed and ready to wear. She took the undergarments at the laundry box instead, scowling at the gown. Then, she head off for a shower.

Afterwards, she called for room service and asked for breakfast. She asked everything that she wanted to eat, for she was much starved. After all, it will all just go into Kashiwagi's tab. When room service was about to leave, Kashiwagi stirred awake and pulled himself out of the bed. He went out of the bedroom. He asked Yumi, "Did you get something for me too?" motioning at the food.

"Yeah. I'm hungry. Are you?"

He looked sluggishly at the food that will be ravished by Yumi. "This is too much."

"I'm hungry. _Itadakimasu_."

He shrugged and dug on to his morning treat. Neither of the two said anything, and just consumed everything that was laid at the table. Yumi was beginning to loose her table manners, but she noticed that he did not mind. He too was a little messy from his usual table discipline. Afterwards, they sat in satisfaction.

"Are you sure you'd go out in my clothes?" He suddenly questioned with embarrassment on his face.

"It's okay, I don't fucking care. I'm an artist." She reasoned. "And besides, I don't want to wear that gown."

He smirked.

Then, she thought, she couldn't remember what her dream was. That dream, what was it?

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N: **What do you think? People, let me say, it's just have to be Kashiwagi. He's playing prince. I know that he was a big moment killer, but I can't help it. It will make sense later on.

But seriously, TELL ME if this chapter is overtly . . . over-the-top dramatic . . . as if while reading you can't help but roll your eyes (as if watching a crappy soap), because,if you felt that way, I would think of better approach on my narration just so I could not repeat that kind of scene again. _Honestly,_ I was _not_ comfortable writing Yumi and Sachiko's gravest moments together. With all the shouting and Sachiko, it was just so . . . frustrating. Ugh. Just so to justify why Yumi was like that.

Please review!


	11. Chapter 11

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_/ Ne, Sei. /_

_This was one telephone conversation that she really considered to have undone her._

_Yumi's voice was flavored with faint static as Satou Sei heard it on her mobile phone. This were one of those rare calls that allowed them, intimate friends that they were, to be with each other closest and farthest at the same time. There was this element of stealth—while she could hear Yumi's voice clearly, she could not see the expressions she made with her face, the mannerisms she did with her hands, the consequent tapping of her fingers against a hard surface, or the continuous spinning of a pencil or a paintbrush by her fingers. But whenever Sei heard that kind of greeting after she aswered the phone, she knew that Yumi called because of a question that was in dire need of an answer._

_She was in her office at the gallery, looking once more on a document containing the list of artworks that would be displayed for the next month. She fumbled at the pages as her attention drifted from there to Yumi's solemn voice._

"_What is it?" Sei asked._

_There was a little pause, as if Yumi was preparing herself for the worst._

_/ How did you get over Shiori? /_

_It was a question Yumi never asked of her. They talked about Shiori, that beautiful angel, from time to time in their most intimate conversations, but Yumi never asked for more information regarding her. Sei was usually the one very honest and spontaneous in revealing parts of her failed love; Yumi did nothing but listen._

"_. . ."_

_It was surprising that she heard that name once more. She felt that that she was transported back to the past, but the hurt, resentment, and longing for her were not there anymore. Sei loved Shiori, she truly did with all her heart, soul, and being, but that emotion (whatever that is) was not as passionate and eternal as it appeared or felt before. It was like a memory of laughter, without feeling happiness. She felt blank, not a little happy, or sad._

_She felt smug, though._

_/ Sei? / _

_Yumi interrupted._

"_Shiori?" Sei repeated the name. Still nothing. She felt nothing. It was a different kind of numbness. It was not because she had adapted or used to the endless and greatest pain she felt before, but it was because she just felt nothing. None at all._

_She was sure of that._

_/ Yes. How did you do it? /_

_Oh, that. It was easy._

"_I got rid of her." Sei admitted casually, an inflection of the voice was heard at the last syllable—as if she were answering such a question everyday._

_Those were very simple, albeit heavy, extreme words. It was a suprisingly easy solution, but she must warn: it was a very hard endeavor. There was a long pause at the other end of the line._

_/ Got rid? How? /_

_Sei pushed the length of her back down to the leathered cushion of her seat, and looked up at the pale ceiling. It had several pencils pinned to it, which she darted there a long time ago, usually when Yumi was not around to entertain her. Coincidently, a pencil detached from it and fell down. She caught it with her free hand. "I killed her. I killed her in my heart. And killed her without a motive. Void of emotion, I guess. I just felt that slowly, she was wasting away in my heart."_

_/ I don't understand. / _

_Yumi's voice trembled with the static._

_A second pencil, very sharp, detached its tip from the ceiling. "She fed off my heart, you see. I just filled mine with poison. Feeling nothing is the heart's poison. Soon, she was weak inside me, saturated with it. Then, she died."_

_/ Then . . . /_

_Two pencils fell. She took no effort to catch them, unlike the first two. They fell on her office table. She emphasized, "Got rid of it. Everything that I've felt for her. My emotions were her nourishment. My hate, my love, everything that drove my heart to beat for her, she fed from it. So I got rid of them. That is the poison."_

_/ Did it work? If ever you'll see Shiori, will it work? / _

_Yumi asked guardedly, as if preparing for an onslaught._

_Sei grinned at the questions. They did not disturb her, not a bit. She was not surprised by that. She said softly, "It did. It is tried and tested, Yumi. I found her so many times and I felt nothing."_

_She thought that her painter friend was weighing the credibility of her answers. _

_/ Will it work on everyone? /_

_Sei chortled. The rest of the pencils fixed at the ceiling of her office darted down all at once, and took their own miserable fall on Sei's desk, pinching and dirtying pristine bond papers with random lines and dots._

"_If it worked for me, then, it should work for _you_, too. Right?"_

* * *

CHAPTER 11

* * *

The elevator opened, revealing Fukuzawa Yumi and the owner of the building, Kashiwagi Suguru. A footman at the elevator bowed to his employer and the painter as he ushered them outside the compartment. The hotel manager approached them with a bow and gave his pleasantries to his most esteemed guests, and gave a black folder with the insignia of the hotel, confirming to his boss that it was given by Shimata-san, his butler. All the while Yumi looked around, spotting some of the female employees gawking at Kashiwagi. She smirked as she deposited her hand to the side pockets of her jeans, which was quite big. On her other appendage, a paperbag containing her evening dress hung on her digits.

Her employer dismissed the manager.

"Kashiwagi-sama, nine o'clock."

His eyes shifted to the supplied direction, and when he got Yumi's message, he looked blankly at her as if she were stupid.

"Your female employees are almost eating you with their eyes. Others were jealous, obviously getting the wrong idea," she taunted. "Their thoughts were as plain as day: who is that tiny woman with him?"

His eyes were blank, unmoving, unable to show reflection. "The painter restoring my Kinomoto." He dropped a snarkly remark.

"Yeah. What a boring person you are." She smugly replied. "Ne, why don't we give them a little disservice?" She gave her the eye for reminding him of what happened a few hours ago, before sunrise. She still was making fun of the idea that he actually asked her for sex. Even though she knew that, he would not budge from his unsmiling and arrogant façade. He would not show such attachment in front of his hotel empoyees; she was betting her life on it.

He did not respond to the taunt.

"Ogarasawa Sachiko was looking for you last night."

Apparently, he was not himself this morning. A moment that she could consider never to happen again. Wrong move, Yumi; you just got yourself a coffin. Yet, with that insight, she thought that this painfully reminded her once more of Sachiko—being not her controlled self in the morning.

That stopped all Yumi's brain function. She mentally got a grip from instantly frozing on the spot and show weakness before her employer, who she doubted giving her trust. She had been thinking about it all morning, while she looked for spare clothing from his closet, while she showered, and while she ate her breakfast heartily. Sachiko's cheerless face was the last thing that she saw, and even with that, she still pragmatically insisting that it was all just a dream.

She was lyng to herself all morning.

A dream that supposedly removed from her memory the moment she woke up from slumber. And when she remembered the existence of that evening, her brain was very decided on recalling memories that hardened her in the first place. Was this a defence mechanism for her not to break down? For her not to be swayed by Sachiko's ministrations? But that painting . . .

Even that blasted painting . . . she had forgotten about it all this time. She had forgotten that she made an oil portrait of Sachiko, and now, she was using it to sway her heart.

Very nice move. She'd give Sachiko that.

"Why are you telling me this now?"

A footman informed Kashiwagi that Shimata was already outside with the limousine. It was their cue to leave for Kyoto, as they agreed a while ago.

"She was chasing you until the doors of the gallery. You seemed to be avoiding her. Yet," When they were inside the limo, he continued, "She paraded you to the public as her close friend, but then I found you running away from her. Why is that, Fukuzawa-sensei?"

"She is _not_ my friend."

"Not until she said so. Others think that you were. You usually push away people that you don't like with malicious words and smug stare, yet why were you doing otherwise with her? Avoiding her, I mean."

Yes, there was a big difference between avoiding and pushing people away.

As he answered nonchalantly, her fuse was suddenly getting shorter and shorter as she could not help negating his comments. She sat there, hating how comfortably she felt while sitting on the impecabble cushions of the limousine's passenger seat. She countered, "They were not informed."

She regretted that she trusted him, back there, at the summit of his hotel.

"Touma Sachiko herself did not get the memo." Kashiwagi drawled.

Yumi fumed in her seat, considering of punching the tinted windshield because she could not think of any verbal counter to block her employer from talking. She knew that any physical torment is less painful than a verbal one—she recognized that as absolute. She learned from the best. But now, she felt extremely pathetic. "Now that you know how to trigger my berserk button, are you happy?"

He muttered. "No. I expect you to be more resilient than that."

"Well, thanks for the encouragement." She growled.

He abruptly look away from the window and faced her, leaning his head to closely just to meet her death stare. He was too near that he invaded almost half a foot of her anterior personal space. "You needed it. Everyone is putting up with your bullshit. I will not." He said sternly and cold.

"As far as I'm concern, only my friends put up with my bullshit. _Are you my friend_?"

She had used this in many situations, to many different people. Those who tried to get close, and to those who tried to spite her. To those with hidden motives, and to those who were just curious about her. Therefore, what would he answer?

She could not believe that he was very calm even when she knew he was displeased.

"Maybe. You can assume that."

She narrowed her eyes to him. "What do you suggest then?"

"Get rid of your weakness. Whatever it takes. _Get rid of it_."

Yumi considered. She heard that a long time ago.

* * *

_Ogasawara, Touma, Kinomoto, Hinomura._

She was itching to cross out at least one surname.

Yoshino stared at an old, crumpled piece of paper that contained these four names. She was sitting on her temporary desk table at Musashino PD, just adjacent to Yuuki's table. Soon, when this was all finished, she would leave the city again, and go back travelling, spending her well-earned money for silly things, and goes home to her simple abode far away from here. She just came back here for an old friend, a request by a respected sempai. All the while, she stayed at her parent's house, occupying her old room. She almost thought that she would be greeted by Rei the moment she moved in, as she expected if Rei did not ever leave the house beside Yoshino's—but many things have happened since graduation. Rei was in Todai, so was she, but they did not share apartments. It was not as if Yoshino was against it; it was because Rei did not ask. And it was fairly surprising that they soon came out from their nests, and never feeling guilty about it.

Weeks ago, when Yoshino's parents heard that she'd be coming back to Musashino, her parents lept in joy in their only daughter's news. It spread up to the next house, and days after she moved back, her family and Rei's prepared a surprise party for her. That was the first time that she saw Rei in years that she could not bit back the tears flowing in her eyes. Rei brought her family too, and Yoshino met her niece and caught up with their stories of their own—Rei's domestic life, husband, her and Yoshino's current occupations. Somehow, being here in Musashino, she regretted that she moved on to another city.

She missed home terribly.

When she heard about Yumi's confession during their one-night stay at Kashiwagi Suguru's place at Kyoto, the first person that she needed to talk to about Sachiko was Rei. Hearing that Sachiko and Rei were still kept their personal correspondence with each other through the years, Yoshino wanted to use her own hold on her dear cousin to extract information. It was worth a try. It would be much better to face Rei first before she could sleuth some from and about Touma Sachiko. Thus, she visited Rei two days before the party.

Rei greeted her with enthusiasm, followed by her very energetic niece. Their house was of the traditional Japanese one, a property fit enough for Rei's budding family. It was a decent property with a little garden at the back. She went inside and settled her shoes on the foyer. Rei's husband was has been scheduled to do the dishes. Yoshino asked him to steal Rei for a while, and gleefully, he told them to stay at the living area, for he was bringing tea. Rei grinned at her, obviously parading her husband's hospitality.

Soon, tea was brough to the low table, and Rei's husband excused himself. He took Yoshino's niece in his arms and once again, the living area was relatively quiet. Little mists were released from the cups, and both of them took a sip on their own. Yoshino was the first person to settle her cup down.

"You and your husband have the same temperament." Yoshino commented.

Rei's cup was still suspended near her lips, savoring the warmth from the vapor of the freshly prepared tea. "Well, I always go for the romantic, domestic types."

"Does he cook?" Yoshino teased.

The former kendo captain smugly grinned. "Excellently."

"I was so sure you'd be catching someone with a samurai background, or some kendo champion." She slumped at the table, surprised herself as she found this act normal. As if she was in Rei's living erea during their old days.

"Well, he's my duel partner." She sipped her tea. "So, what brings you here?"

She sat properly this time. "I was hoping to talk to you about Sachiko-san."

Rei tensed in her seat, but it was so fast that if Yoshino weren't with her for almost all her life, she would miss it. "What about her?"

"How often do you see each other?"

"Er, not habitually."

"When was the last time?"

"I don't see the point of you asking me . . . ?"

Yoshino snapped. "Just answer the question."

Rei smirked. It seemed that some things never change. Still short-tempered as ever. "She personally gave me an invitation at a party at Yumi-san's gallery. She said that . . . it would help Yumi-san cope up if there are friends surrounding her."

The agent raised a brow. "She said that?"

Rei also put an identical expression. "What more would she say? Why are you asking this?"

"It's for Yu . . . it's for the investigation. Somehow, she's connected to this."

"I don't believe you."

"I would not be here asking you if she's not."

Rei sighed for her defeat. "For the past couple of months . . . we sometimes talk about her. She said that she wants to patch things up with Yumi, but she could not think of a way to approach her. She said that she was now reaping what she sowed."

Yoshino tried to act neutral as possible—Rei was the closest person she could get her information without pinging Sachiko-san directly. Only this way she could assess Touma Sachiko's behavior indirectly. Because Yoshino couldn't trust her completely. She could act like a real Ice Princess, and could get away with anything by it.

"Yumi-san was not particularly happy to be reunited with her Onee-sama."

"That is . . . understandable." Yoshino reluctantly agreed.

"Then, you must have known about it."

"I do." She toned it heavily with her voice. "Now, what was she telling you about Yumi . . . before Yumi's painting were stolen . . . before this happened?"

"She said," Rei gulped, accepting the fact that she was violating an informal contract between bestfriends, and once she opened her mouth, she'd fail to look straightly to Sachiko's eyes without any hint of guilt and nervousness. If she knew about this, trust would be lost. "She said that she doesn't want Yumi to suffer. But what she had done before, it had to be that way. Even I never knew what that meant. She had many things in her life that she did not want to divulge, even to her closest of friends. Even to me, her best friend."

Yoshino looked at her tea. She felt that way with Yumi, too. She thought that she failed to support her as a friend.

"She said that I would be repulsed if I knew the things she had done. But, it had to be that way."

And she did not have the right oppurtunity to reach out once more until two days later, after _The Passing Wind_ was stolen.

Could she had orchestrated this, Yoshino wondered. It was plain as day that the woman in the unsignatured portrait was a young Ogasawara Sachiko. It was a very bizzare theory, but could she planned the painting to be stolen so that she could draw attention from her former lover, masquerading herself into the gallery and then just reveal the painting? How _bizzare_ and ridiculous that plan was.

Because Yumi could not be budged anymore by just a visit in her workplace. She was not as civil she used to be. Maybe Sachiko already anticipated that manner of treatment.

Looking back at the paper, she gently fiddled the knob below her seat, and was now adjusting the bottom-rest of the chair in different heights. She must talk personally to Touma Sachiko. She does not like her involvement at all.

"Cross him out."

"Who?" She asked his onofficial partner.

"Hinomura."

"Why? Did you get anything from the trip?"

Days before the party, Fukuzawa Yuuki came back again to gather information about Hinomura and his uncle. Shimazu told her about Yumi's confession back when they visited in Kyoto, thus enabled him to check Hinomura on or off the list. It was very hard to accomplish, since Hinomura's uncle—Yumi's temporary academic adviser back when she was in Kyoto as an exchange student—had a recond on him on bold red letters. That time, Yumi was already messed up with her personal life and here came her professor further screw her up. Literally.

He was indeed, off the list. After their visit in Kashiwagi's residence at Kyoto, he too a long detour to where that middle-aged professor was and asked him questions, trying to lid up his annoyance to see this old lecher. The man was fairly civil, took no awkwardness in answering questions. He was even cooperative when Yuuki asked for documents that he needed to verify his answers. Thus far, the man was innocent.

He reasoned that he want nothing to do with Yumi. As far as he was concerned, he ended all his connections to his former apprentice the moment their quarrel ended. He did atone for his sins against Yumi, but never would he think of stealing her painting for spite. Yuuki could not help but believe him.

Therefore: that man was crossed out from the list. Three more to go.

_Ogasawara, Touma, Kinomoto._

That third name, _Kinomoto_. They found that name inside Yumi's workroom—six masterpieces from three generations of women painters being restored by a budding master artist. That compound that Kashiwagi Suguru owned once belonged to the Kinomoto family, bonded by their innate talents; their pride in securing greatest artists is produced in every generation. That family always had been matriachal. In the last three generations, the sole heir of the family always had been female. Superior artists.

Yuuki always had viewed Kashiwagi Suguru as an enigma to the very essense of the word. He was his sempai at Hanadera, had experienced his leadership in his first year there, served him and appointed as his apprentice. He was even nominated to the precidency for the second term by Kashiwagi. He was everything a kouhai expected for a sempai, but never once that he had seen Kashiwagi more than in the confines of Hanadera campus, neither beyond council duties.

Now, he asked himself: who was Kashiwagi Suguru many years ago? Who was he when he was still in high school?

He could not remember about Kashiwagi talking about his personal life—his family—nothing.

Those thoughts occurred to Yuuki when he happened to pass at Kashiwagi's study when they first visited Yumi. As former school mates, Kashiwagi welcomed him and offered him tea or liquor. Instantly, the butler quickly excused himself. They talked a little about the past—Hanadera related—until Kashiwagi brought the investigation up, like an exposed coffin that was long burried below a murky river.

"Were those men had not helped you in bringing that painting back to its place?" The host asked his former apprentice.

He answered squarely, "They were just ordered to do be there, not knowing that they're decoys."

"Decoys?"

"That painting was not stolen by a man who is in impatient in earning money." He looked at the tea that Kashiwagi served. "That person stole it maybe for fun, for spite, for the alleviation of his boredom—the hell I'd know. He could probably just a stalker or an avid fan, who wanted just a piece of Fukuzawa Yumi, thus he stole that painting, which was considered as her greatest masterpiece."

He bit his lower lip. "That man wanted attention from Yumi."

"I hope that I am of help to your sister."

"Yes. The commission gave her time to forget things. She loves Kinomoto."

"I'm honored that the three Kinomoto are getting her attention." Kashiwagi smiled.

Kashiwagi's eyes were filled with familiar brightness.

Yuuki tried not to react violently for that comment. It was too normal, too innocent that joke was. It came to him: Kashiwagi had been too intertwined with Kinomoto—the paintings, the compound, the commission—were he just a rich variation of dedicated fan? Whenever he was mentioned, the Kinomoto comes afterward—his collection of masterpieces rare enough to acquire, but he spoke of the names with pride, like how Yuuki and Yumi reveled their family name.

(Could it be?)

"Kashiwagi-sempai, what makes you like Kinomoto? You seemed to be living in their world—this house, their works . . . do not tell me that you have more of their paintings than those six resting in Yumi's workroom." He joked, wishing for the gods that Kashiwagi would see this jest as a way to rekindle their friendship and brotherhood back in high school. He remembered Touko's words: when I am on stage, I forget myself. I am a different person. It's, in a way, the same to lying glibly; to lie effectively, I forget my current self.

"What I like about them is that they never die."

Yuuki let himself show his confusion; when you set a trap, don't forget that you set it for your prey and for yourself. "What do you mean?"

Kashiwagi seemed to realize that he spoke rather cryptically for an honest, straightforward man like Fukuzawa Yuuki and reinforced, "Their paintings, I mean. Their message transcends through time."

What a stupendous answer.

He showed nothing of his collections.

Later that night, Yuuki strode along the compound, unable to sleep because of Kashiwagi's words. Was he playing with Yuuki, the latter could not tell. But one thing was for sure; his involvement with Yumi and how he was wedging himself in her life was beyond coincidental. There was something to him that drove him to help Yumi; he was right after when he presented himself to the police as witness for those hired men.

And when he stumbled upon the main hall of the Kinomoto at this late of night, he found himself amazed with a room full of Nihonga.

This man had more than simple fanaticism with the Kinomoto; he was preserving everything that the former owners of the house had.

As if the Kinomoto themselves handed him the responsibility to keep everything in place.

Yoshino interrupted his silent musings, "The Kinomoto is more than a dead, obsolete family. Kashiwagi was keeping the Kinomoto compound arranged, alive, as if he was just taking care of the house until the true masters arrive from a long journey. He was collecting Kinomoto and restoring them. He was bringing everything back to the place it originated."

Yuuki looked at her and said, "Kashiwagi could be related to the Kinomoto. A close family friend, a relative . . ."

"And how could that relate to Yumi's painting?"

"I don't know."

* * *

"She is beginning to defy me." The old man gritted against his teeth, that Kobayashi was trying to not to flinch from the sound—like fingernails grating against blackboard. He still maintained not to move from his standing position.

Once more, he was called again to the President's office about the party Sachiko organized. He was at loss that the old man wanted a very detailed oral report on that event, when he did not even bother to check on his granddaughter's whereabouts before this one. He was even called in more frequently than before.

Masamune couldn't understand his superior's statement. Why would Touma Sachiko be "defying" her? She was doing well in managing her own division in the company, and projected to improve this fiscal year. There was nothing short in everything in his granddaughter's work. So, the anxious, protective phase?

Maybe, the man was beginning to feel the strain of old age?

Masamune doubted that. While stifly standing several feet away from Ogasawara, he thought of the events at the party last night. He did not mention several details to his employer, the fact that he was beginning to suspect the motive behind the old man's careful surveilance of his granddaughter. He should have hired someone else to do his bidding—not Masamune. Instead, he was the one on the move (a proxy for his employer), calling a very reliable person to watch over Sachiko. At first, he was just ordered by Sachiko-sama to forward an important document to Ogasawara personally, and after that meeting, he asked him about his granddaughter.

Whether the President asked that on impulse, Masamune was not sure.

What was he trying to prove? Was he measuring his loyalty for the company? His competitiveness? His ability to get every job done?

Because if he were to ask himself of those questions, he would doubt his proffessionalism as a way down to hell. He should have kept away from matters nearer to the family. Their reputation in the business world was enough to avoid the family . . . a family that was traditionally strict, shunning itself from everyone below them. Sachiko was almost an exemption. But curiosity was getting better of him. Why was President Ogasawara specifically sensitive to matters pertaining to Sachiko-sama's personal life?

(Again, he asked himself: Why am I here?)

And why was he drawn to it like Arisugawa-kun used to be?

Fukuzawa Yuuki had been putting things in his head; the way he asked him yesterday about the Fukuzawa family and Nihonga . . . it was as if he was in a small interrogation room, with an incandescent bulb glowing above him like a giant firefly, rocking back and forth. It was making him dizzy. It was just a matter of time before they were interrupted by his girlfriend. On second thought, should he ask the President?

"President, may I ask," Masamune gulped, "do you like modern Nihonga?"

"I have no interest in them." was his definite, immediate answer.

"How about Miss Fukuzawa Yumi?"

"She is a _boorish_ clod."

For him to hear that from the president of the Ogasawara Group, it was considered that the Fukuzawa Yumi is dead meat. Why was he selectively vile to the painter? Had anyone mentioned before to the grandfather that Yumi and Sachiko were soeurs at Lillian? Wasn't Yumi almost considered as part of the Ogasawara family the moment she inherited the silver rosary from Sachiko's neck?

What did Fukuzawa Yumi do to Sachiko-sama for the President to hate her so much?

Why was he angry that Sachiko-sama was communicating with Yumi?

For he was beginning to feel that Touma Sachiko would be making another move. And as Ogasawara's doormat, he would be in big trouble, just by reporting that.

* * *

Sachiko was again at the Nihonga section of the gallery, looking at the untitled portrait. It was already nearing the closing time, and even though several ushers and security were there to usher them out, Sachiko insisted for another five minutes. As usual, it worked. "If you keep on looking on that picture for quite a time and frequently, why did you even bother to loan it to the gallery?" A voice broke out.

"Whatever do you mean, Rei?"

Her friend was standing with her, seemingly claustrophobic, when she should not be. The woman with light chocolate hair crossed her arms. Her voice was solid, as if her ebony-haired companion was her kendo student. Firm, solid and strict.

Rei, who appeared so princely even with her shoulder-length hair and straight back, exhaled as she was dubious of Sachiko's queenly denial. "You kept that painting for a long time, never to be seen by eyes other than yours. I know it, Sachiko. What were you thinking?"

She persisted. "You should have done that a long time ago—no, you should have _not_ done that now. Involving yourself with her would only hurt you."

That made Sachiko raised her calm voice in slight concern. "Why are you saying this? Did something happen?"

The former Yellow Rose blushed, and looked away from her. "Yoshino talked to me. She was asking about you . . . if we still see each other on the regular basis. I told her too much."

Red. "Did you tell her . . . ?"

Five minutes allowed for them to linger at the gallery were consumed. The usher were pleading them with his eyes to let him do his job.

"No." Rei then put her hand on Sachiko's upper back and led her reluctantly outside. Sachiko took a second to linger her eyes at herself—at the painting, while Rei muttered lowly, "She knows about you and Yumi-san. Yumi-san must have told her. Do you think she'd do that? Tell other people?"

They continued to walk. "What . . . what do you think would she gain from that? And besides, she wanted nothing to do with me. Nothing."

"Why are you still defending her?" Rei was not surprised.

Sachiko breathily admitted. "I hurt her. She'd done nothing to deserve it. I just want her forgiveness. I . . . I want settle everything."

"Why like this?"

"That painting . . . has a history." The ex-Red Rose stated.

"Who cares?" When they were outside, they were met by Sachiko's car, and together, they went at the back, beside each other. The driver greeted them, and afterwards, he stayed quiet as if he weren't there. Sachiko briefly reminded her that Rei would have tea and cakes with her afterwards. But when they have nothing else to talk about, Rei opened up the topic with much more grit. "You should have thought of this. Why are you doing this in the middle of her lost painting's investigation? You'd be entangled to all her problems. What if this investigation would reveal the truth between you and Yumi? Have you thought of the repercussions of your actions?"

"It was already revealed! To Yoshino, of all people!" Rei glared at the person beside her. Sachiko continued, "You yourself told me that she knew about it. When she visited me for a little questioning, I realized that she knew nothing about it. She assumed that Yumi and I were just soeurs separated by time and circumstances, nothing that went deeper—that's why her questions are not too personal. Now, who knows what she'd dig? She'd be ensnared in a tragedy more than just a lovers' quarrel."

She could not look at Rei's critical eyes. She stuttered, "I never told Yumi the whole truth because I was powerless to do so. I think I have it now. I owe Yumi that."

Torn Rei was as she weighed Sachiko's moves. Rei sensed that Sachiko was no more than a pawn in this unknown game; however, she was convinced that whoever was manipulating everything above them would struggle to place her forward, from block to block, until she reached the opponent's end. Then, she'd gain being the queen once more.

She was powerful by herself, but would her sphere of influence be?

When she would battle for Yumi, she would place herself in a trap everyone expected her to fall.

The former Yellow Rose reasoned, "Soon, you'll be trapped to Yumi-san's problems . . . not only you, but everyone around you. You'll open up old wounds. You'll be digging your own grave. You'll be replaying history. What will your grandfather do, if he knew your motives? Your plans?"

Sachiko proclaimed. "He doesn't have the right to control me forever."

"You've fail her once." Only discouraging Sachiko was the most logical thing that Rei could force to her friend's skull.

Yet, Sachiko did not falter. "I've failed her so many times. I intend not to anymore." She looked at her friend as she closed both her hands into fists—the only way she could release the tension inside her. "I will do anything for her to . . . hear me out."

"But that doesn't include leaving her alone. It's her decision to forgive you or not." The once Lillian Prince muttered.

Rei looked away, to the road ahead, and noticed that the driver was eying them, ostensibly listening to their conversation. She glared back, and the chauffeur turned his attention back to the road as if he did nothing. He understood his position; he did not see or hear anything.

Still, he annoyed Rei, but she dismissed it. Surely, what did he know?

* * *

"If I weren't me, like I am now," she gulped the building saliva in her mouth and breathed deeply, "If I were like before, then, how would you think of me? Would you prefer that?"

Matsudaira Touko stopped pouring the freshly prepared tea that the old caretaker had given them a while ago. She looked at her sister with concern, anticipating questions that were more hypothetical, and even rhetorical.

Days had passed ever since the party and none of them had talked about it all this time. While within Yumi's range of hearing, the event was as if the world had gone by without a soul able to remember it, but when she was not around, people were talking. Touko had assumed that this was the case, assuming that Yumi was still had her pride a little tender when the gallery seemed to be too comfortable that _that_ untitled painting now hanging onto the wall where _The Passing Wind_ used to occupy. She was expecting annoyance from her beloved sister, soothing her ego by being a little grumpy, but now, she did not expect that Fukuzawa Yumi would openly show angst in front of her.

They had few moments of sharing honest thoughts every time they happened to be together, but not as long duration as of now. She thought that it was because she was the only person present inside the workroom besides Yumi that she somehow had the liberty to explicitly release contained emotions since that faithful evening.

This day, she found time to rush to Kyoto for her older sister after that party. Being busy sometimes was not helpful—she wanted to support Yumi as much as she could. And having a longer freetime, she thanked the gods for it.

She resumed filling tea to traditional clay cups and settled one at the table near Yumi. She looked at the painting tha Yumi was restoring; the painter's hands were covered with a palette of blue shades, and secured by the fingers of her left hand was a very small round-tipped paintbrush. She was obviously completing small details to a Kinomoto painting, which according to Yumi, was totally a "pain in the ass" to master.

Back to the question, she challenged Yumi with another one, "Do you really want me to answer that?"

Yumi let loose of her back and gently moved away from the _ground._ "Yeah, I guess."

Touko snorted as she replied, "You know the answer already: it doesn't matter." She took a little sip from her cup (even when she was standing—a very inappropriate gesture) and supplemented, "All that I'm glad for is that you've never closed me from your world. You still treated me as your little sister like before. And you've been exceptionally nice to me. Do you think I didn't notice that?"

Yumi could not comment on that; she stayed quiet as Touko explained. "And it's not at all nice, just being nice just only to me. I hope you'll extend it a little to my lovely boyfriend."

The painter snorted, "He's my brother. He's used to me being such a bitch since forever."

"And he's concerned for you, like I am." She quipped. "So be nice."

"We should switch places. You being my onee-sama, I mean."

It was meant to be an innocent joke, but after a few moments of letting the joke sink into the conversation, its effect chained into a bitter afterthought, like she was given rotten egg and force feed it to her.

"It was not at all nice, Nee-san."

"That kind of _nice_ is something that was now foreign for me." She argued feebly.

Touko fearlessly pointed out, "You know you can't hide the fact that Ogasawara Sachiko, no matter what she did in the past, was still a good older sister to you." She expected a quick retaliation from Yumi, a very malevolent example of how Sachiko had played with her heart.

But Yumi said something that she did not expect.

"Even though I know that's true . . . I acknowledged that fact from the bottom of my heart, but that was not enough. I don't know why." She tenaciously admitted. She removed the delicate paintbrush from her hand, so as not to break it.

Insight got the better of Touko. "Is this about that party?" then she quickly negated herself, "no . . . about that painting?"

The older woman gave no reply.

Touko whispered. "Not everyone will notice it. Not unless they know that Sachiko-san was once your lover. You were still experimenting on your style, so it's different from the rest of your work. She was that woman, the model. Am I correct, Nee-san?"

"Yes."

"I see. Are you beginning to think differently now that you've seen that artpiece once more?"

Even with Touko's daring grilling about Yumi's thoughts of Sachiko and that painting, she realized that she still could not be at all transparent to her little sister. Touko had proven herself for so many times and various occassions, but she was still painful revealing her feelings whenever Sachiko was being brought about. Before everything happened, she felt no hesitation in expressing her contempt against her former onee-sama—Touko understood that. But now, examining the events that happened, even her heart still overwhelmed with hatred, a little speckle of weakness was now slowly eating her current feelings.

Hope? No; impossible.

"You are putting things in my head, Touko."

Forgiveness? It was long gone.

"That's _pathetic_."

_Why can't I be stronger?_

* * *

Kashiwagi Suguru was in his study when his butler knocked his door and motioned inside. He was in his usual plain expression bore at his employer. On his hand was a tray with a porcelain pitcher, a single cup and saucer. Beside the containers were sealed envelopes. He proceeded and settled the tray on the low table among the sofa set.

"Tea, Sir?" He was already pouring freshly made tea to the pale white porcelain cup.

"Yes, please." Kashiwagi answered without looking up to Shimata.

He settled the cup of tea within Kashiwagi's reach at the table, along with the bulk of mail and settling them neatly. The former Hanadera council president took both of what his butler arranged at his table, holding the saucer with the tips of her left hand and the mail on the other hand.

As he looked at them, flipping envelope after envelope, he noticed one for her employee, Fukuzawa Yumi. It was plain; a return address was not written on it. He narrowed his eyes to the paper and sensed what was inside, as he sipped his tea. He flipped the envelope, but nothing was written except her name.

The butler raised a brow as Kashiwagi looked intently at the unopened, plain, dull letter. "Is the tea not your liking, Sir?"

Kashiwagi answered absently, "No, it is good, as usual." He lifted his arms and showed the letter to his butler. "Tell me, did you see whoever sent this letter?"

"I'm sorry; it just appeared in the mailbox."

Shimata smiled at him, deficient of worry, which should have been expected from such a report. Kashiwagi leaned back to his cushoned seat, and fiddled with the sides of the envelope.

"You know what they say: bad things do come in pack."

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N: **This is a breather chapter, a sort of calm-before-the-storm thing. You must also notice that I've been referencing few lines from the movie and anime of Utena. You must have also noticed last week that I had updated two of my titles, and for me, that was quite rare. This is the last week that I would prompt you for updates on a weekly basis. For the next weeks, I'll be quite busy because . . . I am growing up.

(Whatever that meant.)

The next chapters would be longer than the usual 4K to 6K-word bulk. So, I guess, I need more encouragement for me to supply another. Reviews will be highly appreciated!


	12. Chapter 12

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_A friend is one that knows you as you are, understands where you have been, accepts what you have become, and still, gently allows you to grow._

_-William Shakespeare_

* * *

CHAPTER 12

* * *

Yumi guarded herself as she read her letter in the secluded corner of her workroom. The painter usually had a rice-papered door left open for her rancid air of pigments to dissipate out, but with this unusual letter, she decided not to take any chances. Maybe, there's some biological weapon inside this letter, a deadly virus ready to kill her in a matter of hours, she joked to herself. Her imagination was taking entertainment from this; she imagined that this letter might be from some unknown organization or fraternity recruiting secret agents—even bordering to an Illuminati conspiracy, signing her up for some trivial cause. Or to warn her the her time was near. But she rolled her eyes.

Still, she opened it. And she found a handwriting that she could recoginize since she became one of the helpers of Yamayurikai a decade past. She smirked at the stupidy and pain Yoshino must have done to deposit such a suspicious letter—without a damn return address—to Kashiwagi's mailbox. Really, why all the anonymity? That's just terribly inconvenient.

As expected from Yoshino, the message was brief and direct. No tradional and conventional how-do-you-do and how-does-the-season-fairing-you sort of greeting. Yoshino was now getting in harmony with Yumi's method of communication. Fast-read, substancially detailed, brief, no more bullshit on the side. Yoshino must have been consulting someone that knew how to entrap Yumi to approval. Indeed, the painter was impressed on how she could extract techniques such as this from Yuuki—or maybe Sei, without asking it directly.

Yumi was asked to get out of the compound two days hence and meet Yoshino at Ginkaku-ji at Sakyouku, on lunchtime, noon. She would be waiting at the front gate, and lunch tab would be Yoshino's. But one note made Yumi wondered of the nature of the meeting: she was not allowed to tell Kashiwagi Suguru of this. That made Yumi think only of her painting; Yoshino and Yuuki might have been getting leads (and direction) to her lost piece, and she thought that Kashiwagi was somehow tied into the situation.

She was unsure on how to respond to that theory.

There was a series of numbers on the post-script, and she noticed that it was Sei's mobile number. With that, she concluded that Yoshino was asking consultations from that blonde, teasing woman.

She decided: she would be there. Just one phonecall away then the meeting would be settled. She folded the paper and burned it with the envelope. She thought of Sei as she got a small box of matchsticks and watched the flames trickled to the plane of the papers, turning them to ash.

For drama and flair.

* * *

Yoshino looked at Sei as she reviewed everything that she had done for the investigation for the last two days. First, she went to different agencies in Kyoto to know more about the Kinomoto family—the family registers, schools, museums were inspected and asked for any information regarding them. With that, she needed Sei to establish contacts—she was after all, the senior curator of a gallery back at Musashino. The reason for the stupidly delivered letter to Yumi was sort of a joke insinuated by Sei, thinking that this should spice up Yumi's reaction to the letter—equiping it with elements of secrecy would make everything dramatic. Sei mentioned that maybe Kashiwagi would be cautious enough to open it before giving it to Yumi, and with that possibility, Yoshino still allowed Sei's endulgement for frivolity. After all, if Kashiwagi had read it before Yumi does, then Kashiwagi's involvement would depend on how he would act, or draw his next move. Yoshino expected him to do nothing; it was the best and safest move. After all, only extremely stupid (and guilty) people would be worried with mundane trick such as a letter from an anonymous source.

But Sei's idea was still mundanely stupid. Yoshino wondered _why_ she allowed her to have her way.

They were at a small traditional inn, owned by a tall, stocked man with gentle smile and thick beard who Sei claimed to be her old friend who helped her during the early days of her "post-university". She pursed her lips as she dismissed Sei-san's idiotic words, telling herself that these "post-uni" days could be fundamentally summarized as the cruel outside world. The man just nodded cheerfully, grunting twice to agree with Sei's informal introduction, then proceeded with the business.

She could never get used to Sei's musings.

A call a while ago catalized their plans to fruition; Yumi finally turned on her cellular phone just to confirm her acceptance to Yoshino's invitation. Yoshino did not ask any question—when she took the gadget from the unsuspecting Sei, she immediately asked her best friend if she'd accept, and she was given a brief, affermative answer, "I'll be meeting you." Without farewell greetings, the line broke, leaving on Yoshino's ear statics.

After two days, Yumi showed up; her black motorbike roaring smoothly along the pathway to a parking space near the gate. Still clad in her equally black riding jacket and helmet, she unfastened the front zipper of the leather trench-collared jacket. As usual, Yoshino could feel irritation on Yumi's features; as if a cloud of dust was above her, that some people passing by would step back away from her. Because her silent strides to the steps leading to gateway were screaming I'm-so-pissed-off. Yoshino was waiting there, empty handed, which made Yumi walked faster than before.

"I agreed to your proposal since you promised that lunch would be in your tab." Yumi groaned.

Yoshino smiled wickedly as her silent reply.

"I'm _very_ hungry."

The agent then walked away, while she replied, "Good. We're having a picnic." She expected Yumi to follow her.

They found Sei sitting below the canopy of a tree facing the famous Buddhist temple. The tall blonde noticed them and greeted. But her eyes took a longer linger to Yumi's sharp ones; Yumi realized immediately that Sei was situated under the tree where they first reunited many years ago. And that brought a frown on Yumi's face. Sei's lips turned the same.

"How are your commisions?"

"Working on the second Hinata now."

Sei was very expressive with things like this. She believed that nothing is coincidental, and she took advantage of that. Yumi would not be surprised if the news that Yoshino and Sei would give would be a bad one. It was like that years ago, when Sei dropped Yumi the news that Sachiko was indeed marrying Touma Ryu. Under this tree, bad news was being delivered.

"We eat first. Business afterwards."

The bento Yoshino bought was good anough for four people, but Yumi, taking advantage of Yoshino's invitation took half of the fourth's share and indulged herself. After a few minutes of silence after Sei started to take away the finished bento, Yoshino gathered Yumi's attention from the silver-plated roof of the temple and said, "You probably noticed what I'd say."

"Yeah, yeah, it's about my employer. It's stupid to send unnamed letters like that. Really," Yumi snorted, unimpressed. "You're giving us false sense of danger. Very anticlimactic."

(Us?) Yoshino tried not to emphasize that part.

"Sei planned that." Yoshino shifted the blame to the quiet one of the three. "But I intended to do that, just to shake things up a bit in your compound. You seem to be having a good time there." The agent gave a long look at Yumi's face, but the latter countered a glare. She said nothing more.

Good time? Yes, she supposed that she did, but at the same time, a part of her was silently objecting. Sachiko's move few days ago proved to be very taxing occasionally; she was sometimes spacing out from her work, neglacting the Kinomoto for seconds was as if it was stretched to hours, or even a lifetime. That portrait that she had almost forgotten took toll on her judgment, nearly convincing herself that Sachiko was serious in making amends, because of what that painting meant for them. A declaration of love. To declare it six years ago—before going to Kyoto or before her marriage—would be a celebration for Yumi, but now, Sachiko's imposing took her not to happiness, but to confusion. Touko was right; she was still not settled with her feelings about her former onee-sama. Touko would be satisfied if Yumi still hated her; better to have a singular sentiment for a person rather mixed and contrasting feelings. The latter was always constantly destructive, in any form, in any occasion.

Kashiwagi-san's presence too, was beginning to be a little less irritating as time passed. He no longer inspected her progress every night since she went there and be as suffocating because of his pushiness about the paintings. It was very alarming at first, realizing that fact as he took a small space outside her workroom sipping his sake as she worked her way to a Kinomoto in the middle of the night. In his yukata or business clothes he drank, savoring the scenery before him—the moonlit garden, the star-studded sky. He claimed that it was the best spot outside to watch them, but she doubtful of his assertions. Sometimes, he took the time to go inside the workroom, nonchalantly commenting about the fumes of her mediums or look at the progress of the painting she was now restoring. Back then, she was still in the first Kinomoto—Hinata's—and was on the final touches. He said that the first time he saw it; he was very disappointed and saddened at how the painting could not _breathe_ in its old home. That made Yumi pondered, but never voiced it loudly: where was this old home? She knew exactly what he was talking about; the painting had spots of molds on the sides of the wood that supports the painting, and the delicate ink that was used was beginning to fade and pluck out. It was supposed to stick to the medium for a longer time. She was wrong about him at this point: he really knew his paintings.

At times, he would be offering her a drink, and she agreed, only allowing herself two shots or three, not to drown herself into stupor. As time passed, he was frequently staying there almost every night, beyond the doors of her workroom. And she was beginning to accommodate the little piece of addition to her usual surroundings. They were beginning to act like drinking buddies, almost bordering close to a silent, mutual friendship. Because no matter how Yumi hated it—he was the only person that speaks to her in the house. Not his butler, who only appeared when Kashiwagi-san summons him, or that old woman dressed in dull kimono.

She did not need conversation or company; however, Kashiwagi always had her attention because of their common ground: the Kinomoto paintings.

"Why not? Six Kinomoto on commission. There is free food and lodging. No one is banging my doors," she shortly shifted her eyes to Sei's direction; Sei smirked. "And it is quiet there. Tell me, what more could a painter like me ask?"

"You should be watchful of your employer, Kashiwagi Suguru."

Yumi raised a brow. "Oh?"

"Haven't you notice how doting he was with the Kinomoto family and their paintings? It was obsessive."

"So? There's nothing wrong with having fixation to the Kinomoto; afterall, they are a very interesting family of painters. So much warped impression on their works." She said as she remembered the other five that she'd restore next.

The air was getting colder, amidst the pleasant surroundings.

"He could be connected to the Kinomoto on my list." Yoshino said grimly. "Just be wary of him. I personally don't trust that guy. He has a very shady past. He's very connected to a very prominent ya-chan*. He also has great backings from the black market, and holds an extensive influence there. Yet, he appears so harmless on the outside."

"He is not my business. Our business, ladies, is my missing painting. Maybe, I'm more concerned and interested in the progress in locating my stuff than gossip about my employer." Yumi deadpanned.

"He's fixated with the Kinomoto painters. He could be as interested to the only person capable of restoring Kinomoto masterpieces? Maybe," Sei suggested, as she crossed her legs and lean on the trunk of the tree and look at the temple, "Maybe, he likes Fukuzawas too?"

* * *

Yumi gripped harder on the rod and let her motorbike roar along the road, just accelerating a notch above the speed limit just to calm down. She expected Kashiwagi Suguru to be as Yoshino described her: shady, suspicious, and distrustful. Those impressions made him the way he was, and she had no qualms; she was there to do his commissions, not to snoop into his life. She was never interested in that, but it made her think of Kashiwagi Suguru. He was an exciting human being to study and scrutinize. He was very contradicting—he acts normally, nothing of how she usually perceived rich people was, as if he came from a very humble origin. She found him a little coarse, even when he appeared to be seducing her back at his hotel. As if he was not that adept to it. He was not imposing as most men of influence were; she could not think of him as a person with chambers filled with gold. She could not even see him fit properly in a custom-tailored suit with heavy cuff links and impeccable tie, and expensive shiny shoes. He just did not fit.

Shady? That was what she expected of him.

She reckoned before that it was no harm for them to be friends after the commission was done. Like Sei, there was something in Kashiwagi that ease her somehow; Sei was free, unshackled by time, culture and circumstances and Yumi loved that about her. Kashiwagi was surprisingly unpretentious. But even with his strange humility, he reeked of power—something visceral. Neither because of money nor influence.

Was there ever a person that could read him thoroughly? Was there any man that could catch him off-guard? Because no matter how powerful a man is, there is always someone far greater than him, far more dominant.

Be watchful of him. Do not be swayed with his musings. Yoshino said.

Be more resilient. Kashiwagi once said that to her.

* * *

"_They're becoming friends."_

"_I could see the doubt in her eyes, as I told her that Kashiwagi Suguru might have stolen it. . . refusing to believe me."_

"_It seemed that they were sharing more time together than the usual business."_

"_She's softening to him."_

Could she be wrong in telling Rei those things? Yoshino still could not decide whether her move was tactical or not. Her cousin and Sachiko-san remained closest—it was obvious that Sachiko could be as fluid and transparent to Rei. The former kendo captain must have been aware of Sachiko's intentions of pursuing Yumi again, and with Yoshino's information, Sachiko would be more cognizant, more suspicious of Kashiwagi. Given his background, the now-concerned Sachiko would unleash her protectiveness for Yumi to the point of maybe . . . wedging herself into the scene? It was a long shot; it was very risky, but she was certain that Sachiko, upon hearing this from Rei, would surely do something.

* * *

Yuuki began to investigate Kashiwagi Suguru's past. This job was something that he should have done way back since his first high school year at Hanadera, when he took Yuuki as his apprentice for the first time.

He was once more in the confines of Hanadera Private Academy for Boys, heading towards the administration building to visit the school's headmaster. He already requested the old man's presence days ago in a phonecall, that he intended to visit there for his investigation. He specifically reported that he needed to talk to teachers who once were Kashiwagi's homeroom adviser, and to guidance councelors that took him in. He gathered ample bits of his sempai's middle school life—just to profile him.

School files too; he almost forgot.

Kashiwagi came into Hanadera Academy during the first year of middle school. He was from a middle-class family, enough to send a boy of thirteen to one of the most prestigious all-boys private schools in Tokyo. He was a handsome boy, already taller than most his age, and managed to stand out among the crowd with his calm and quiet bearing. He spoke when he needed to. Yet, even with his excellent marks and unpolished charm, he was not regarded highly most of his teachers and peers. He was, in a way, a delinquent. He fought a lot, frequenting detentions as if it were a day-to-day task. A former classmate, who was now a math teacher there, told Yuuki that whenever he fought, he never showed anger or enjoyment in his spoils. He just fought. During the math teacher's second year, he saw Kashiwagi fought a known third-year bully, who was intimidating a first year just because he passed by him without bowing, defending the poor boy without saying anything by swinging a baseball bat to the bully's head, only to stop just an inch from the ear.

They were in the center of the school grounds, just outside the middle school academic building, where all students could see him shrink the bully's nuts without actual, physical violence. No one dared to care about the little boy at that time, afraid of the larger man's wrath. He got the baseball bat from the bully himself, who was using it to terrorize the first year.

He got other delinquents as enemies. He was first challenged by the same bully, who used one of Kashiwagi's classmates to lure him. It was known that the school's sports grounds were all brawls were done. It was some sort of a known fact—delinquents fought there for dominance, and the students marveled at, gambled for, and feared the outcoming winner. The rich, influencial students were entertained, the rest of students would be momentarily amazed but later dreaded if the new victor would be worse.

(Yuuki knew this tradition, but it made sense that when he was there, it was not occuring frequently than in Suguru's time because the champion himself was not often challenged.)

His reputation preceded him even in high school. During his second year, he was taken in as the treasurer's apprentice, but was not present in council meetings as he should be. There, he was known as the rival of the school's prince—Touma Ryu. He was in the student council, acting as the apprentice of the president then. He was Kashiwagi's only batchmate who could be three feet near him without pissing his pants.

(Yuuki often wondered how this information was not even told to him before. He knew nothing about Kashiwagi's past because no one dared to talk about him. But what surprised him was his relationship with Touma Ryu. Now, that's the reason why Touma Ryu's name was very familiar the moment he saw it from Ogasawara Sachiko's wedding invitation years ago—he was the reigning student council president during Yuuki's first high school year.)

Kashiwagi Suguru was the bloodhound of the student council. The one who did the dirty works. It might not be a glaring resposibility of the student council, but two of its jobs were to maintain peace within the school's community and apprehend those who disobeyed the rules. Suguru was there as the unofficial leader of the disciplinary tribunal. The shadow the student council had been hiding.

By the time Yuuki entered the highschool division, he was taken in by Suguru, who happened to be the vice-president for Touma's presidency. The Missing Vice-President, members of the council used to call him, still was the head of the tribunal. During Touma's reign, the tribunal received less delinquents, making Suguru (and Yuuki, one of his apprentices) having less jobs, and was reduced to heavier and physical tasks such as purchasing materials for the school festival and other activities. Suguru was never present in the minutes of the council assembly, yet he knew everything that transpired there (Yuuki discerned this as Suguru's henchman). Afterall, Suguru was the shadowy extension of the council, always receiving and giving orders beyond the walls of the council room.

(Yuuki once volunteered to be his proxy at the council meetings but Kashiwagi-san assigned another member of the disciplinary tribunal instead. The sempai just told him that he'd learn more on the streets than inside the cloistered room.)

(It could be the reason Yumi was surprised that Kashiwagi was a member of the Hanadera council, because she did not meet Suguru when Lillian Private Academy for Girls had their culture festival during her first year. So why did she claimed to Yoshino at Kyoto that she did not know Touma Ryu until she saw the wedding invitation? Did she not meet Touma during her days as Sachiko's petit soeur?

He asked Yoshino about Touma Ryu being in the Hanadera student council, and she said that she had known him by formal introduction during one of their practice for the Yamayurikai play, and remembered him that she was a pleasant sort of man, amidst Sachiko's general dislike for men.)

Until his graduation came, he was of the top students of the graduating class. He received a ladder acceptance at Hanadera University and was about to take it, but at the end of the term, he went away for Kyoto. The possible reason was that he was devastated when his old parents both died in an accident before graduation.

He was able to avail a scholarship at a university at Kyoto, skipped several general courses because of his professors' recommendations, and pursued Economics as his major. He graduated earlier than most of his batchmates; afterwards, he was off the record.

Then, three years later, he went back to Kyoto and already had his own acquisitions. It was a fast recovery. He bought the Kinomoto compound and since then it became his home. Year by year, his worth rose; he became one of the prominent business players at Kyoto, Tokyo and Osaka.

Yuuki was sitting at his desk after he reread the information that he gathered. So much have changed from his delinquent days. What motivation made him excel?

And where did his addiction for the Kinomoto family came from?

* * *

That night, Sachiko couldn't sleep. Ryu was already slumbering deeply beside her—his strong, muscular arms wrapped around her waist, unable to shift in his hold. Her head was rested on his other arm, his folded arms served as a pillow. Lately, he seemed to need her more than before, his touch lingering, and his hold around her was more possessive, sometimes childish. He was devastatingly gentle. In appreciation, she reciprocated the attention. Now, as she budged away from him, he would usually mumble in protest and even in sleep, he gently pulling her closely again.

She wanted to weep silently at nights like this.

She could not atone for her sins, not until she could tell Yumi the truth. She knew what she had done, the consequences of her harsh words, her lies, her cowardice, and she wanted to make amends. She had sinned against Yumi, and she would not repeat the same mistake anymore.

She let her husband hold her tightly as she shifted position to embrace him too.

Rei called once more.

Should she believe what Yoshino have told Rei?

That night at the party, he looked at her with loathe; the anger his body was emanating was visible in the night's downpour. She took no mind of such gesture—many people hated the Ogasawara family as many people loved them, but when he stared at her, his eyes twinkled when he took Yumi by his arms and placed her inside. It was as if Yumi was the bait. She hated that feeling.

When his limousine drove off, she felt a pang in his heart that something was dreadfully wrong. And she felt it the moment that man laid his eyes on her.

She decided: firstly, it was better to keep an eye on Yumi. And on Kashiwagi Suguru.

When she knew that Kashiwagi Suguru was a student of Hanadera Academy and was Ryu's batchmate, and the next day, she asked him about her.

"Kashiwagi Suguru?" Ryu repeated as he sipped his morning coffee.

Sachiko replied, "Yes, that person."

"Kashiwagi-san. Why; he's my classmate at Hanadera." He smiled as he openly remembered his youth and continued talking after putting down his newspaper. He folded the newsprints neatly and handed it over to Sachiko, who would read it secondly. "He was called 'The Missing Vice-President' back in the student council. It was hard to let him stay, though. To get him into my party and win, his attendance would not be compulsory. Instead, one of his apprentices at the disciplinary committee would substitute for him."

"He sounds so irresponsible to me."

"Oh, Sachiko, he wasn't." Ryu grinned as put all his attention to his wife. "I remembered him having few but very close, trusted friends. He keeps them close. More so with his enemies, because was the head of the student disciplinary force, needing to keep tabs with them all the time. He always seems to know where to get things, very useful during cultural festivals. When most Hanadera students were interested on leading and directing, and hated doing the dirty jobs, Kashiwagi-san knew how to do both. He's intelligent as well as streetwise."

Sachiko smiled at Ryu's indulgence. "You seem to know him well."

"I envy that guy. He used to be my rival." Then, he looked at him quizzically, and raised his brow, asking humorously. "Why did you bring up another man besides your husband so early in the morning?"

She cleared the possible misconception right away, with a glare. "I remembered that he was Fukuzawa Yumi-san's date during the last party we had at Hinomura-san's gallery. As a host at that time, I overlooked him. He left early that I haven't had the time to make an avenue for your reunion. I suppose you haven't been able to talk to him that night?"

"I haven't. I suppose he still couldn't stand parties. I really want to know what that chap's up to lately."

Sachiko smiled at him. He returned the gesture with a grin.

"I think you should give him a call."

* * *

"It's finished."

It was already close to midnight.

She expected no reply from the person about the doors of her workroom. Kashiwagi, on his black slacks and crisp white button-down shirt, was sitting on the wooden floor of the corridor. The full moon was very bright, setting a luminiscent glow upon the gardens, the koi pond, and reaching even the painter's room. He looked away from the gray orb above and looked inside the workroom.

"What is?" He asked, as he took a quick gulp from his small cup.

Yumi pointed out, then shifted the painting near the door to let the Kinomoto be basked by the moonlight. "This is much better to look at during nighttime."

Kashiwagi awed at the painting for longer moments that Yumi gave him the privacy to marvel at Hinata's work, therefore went outside to get herself _sake_. She found two cups sitting on the wooden circular tray and she snatched the unused one and filled it with clear acerbic fluid. In most occassions that she found his employer before her rice-door watching the skies, she dared not join him in his drinking, but whenever he was around, a cup was spared for her. She always took this as an indication that he wanted to share his rice wine.

She went inside and looked at him still fixed upon the painting. She always thought that he has a strong, angular face and his features were perfect to draw, but she never realized that he was—without any reference to the standards of visual aesthetics that she learned art school—beautiful. He was not at all projected as if he was a fashion model in front of a flashing camera, sensuality dripping upon every smooth movement. She was magnetized to the image of his calloused posture, of the way he sat on the stool, his sharp elbows resting on his thighs, his rough fingers linked before his face as his sharp eyes scrutinized the Kinomoto. She could see how she would paint him—vivid colors of blues, browns and greens, unblended in thick oil-based paints. Pictures of ordinary life, inspired by impressionism. Him sitting in front of a painting, engrossed to the picture before him. An image of nothing heroic, mystified, or regal, but a remarkable "ordinary" image all the same.

Without thinking, she admitted, "I always get the impression that you're not born in this world wearing a crown on your head and covered with jewelry," as she turned her attention to the finished product.

"I was from a middle-class family."

Their conversations were always like this. There was never a question voiced, just an assumption or impression to the person's character. It was not obligatory to affirm or oppose, or to tell a story.

"I managed to get to Hanadera because of their hardwork, but you see: they're already old to support me to such an exclusive school. They insisted, still." He said quietly as he stood from the stool and walked out of the room to dispense himself another helping of _sake_.

"We lived comfortably, my brother and I." A story for a story. "Our parents were very lucky and skilled living off their art, very unlikely from what they expect from a couple with art degree. Thinking about that, it boosted up my morale knowing that my parents were a living proof that artists are not doomed to become hobos or hipsters."

Somehow, Yumi had spilled more than Kashiwagi, but it did not concern her a bit—she always knew that in every conversation, she was the one always having postscripts on every sentence.

"I have a different reason why I pursued Economics. It was something I needed to learn."

"Power, money, influence." She supplied.

"Many people think Economics is limited to those." He raised a brow, not liking what he was hearing.

"Is it not?" The painter snatched the bottle and filled her cup.

"Imprudents think that way."

She conceded silently, and sat on the wooden floor of the corridor and looked at the stars. "Like how ignorant and inappreciable people think of art."

He said arrogantly, without breaking his blank expression. "I know your art; do you know my economics?"

She snorted and recited nonchalantly, "Like how it concerns the production, distribution, and consumption of goods and services? Just a little."

"You were not sleeping in your Econ class."

"I became a Nihonga artist because I foresaw that I could live comfortably off of it, because someone appreciates my work, and gladly pay to see it. Some artists live most of their lives off their art but stay unappreciated, but when they choose to draw pornography, they earn millions. That's how I could relate them. My art is bound to your economics like people who believe that economics is the most important element in a society. I used to be attentive, you see."

With that last sentence, she felt gloomy all of a sudden, torn of the memories that she made her know such things. Years might have gone ever since she graduated from college, but she would not forget how most of her life there revolved around two things: Sachiko and her art. They used to go to the main library of the university, separate when they looked for their desired books because the theory of line and free-market economics were extreme ends of the shelves. Still they would gather in a table, and together, they studied. She would sometimes take a peak to Sachiko's notes and read.

How far off was the course of their discussion?

"How often you change facial expressions." He observed, looking at her intently, as if she were a lab rat drugged with caffeine. Stupefied.

She grunted. "_Gee_, thanks." Hearing it a million times . . .

They ended their discussion in by chugging their drinks in one gulp.

Kashiwagi did not leave his post until Yumi told him that she would retire for the night. And that was an hour later after midnight.

On the next night, when she was now starting her work for the second Hinata painting, she found the yukata-clad Kashiwagi once more at the doors of her workroom, watching the dark sky. She looked a little longer, more than she usually did, and she found him unmoving. She tried not to disturb his seemingly private moment with the stars.

Afterwards, Shimata came along, bringing tea. His master accepted, and quickly, he dismissed him for the night. He gladly excused himself. They were, once again, just like the recent nights, alone under the stars.

Yesterday, it was sake; now, it's tea. She wished that Shimata-san remained there to join them. For the first time, she seeked not for solitude but for a _crowd_. Shimata, Kashiwagi and she could be a crowd. If there was one thing that she was afraid of, it would be being with a stranger often, to be forced to talk to him (Kashiwagi was very indulging; he seemed to have the skill to provoke her into speaking), until she realized that she already knew bits about him, and at the same time, spilled her own.

She remembered how she failed to keep her mouth shut yesterday; she was the first to acknowledge his company by talking.

(Who would start this time?)

She shrugged and proceeded with her work.

"Would you like tea?" He asked, but he was still immobile from his seat at the hallway. She assumed that he wasn't that cordial in sharing tea that was most like made by his butler. She made a bet with herself if she said _yes_.

"I'd love to." She said, not turning her eyes from her work; her one hand, covered with paint, was holding a pallete, the other a large brush.

She heard motions from outside—the flow of liquid and a trickling sound afterwards, the shuffling of kimono and the wearer moved, the dull tapping sound of feet against hardwood. She noticed herself stopping just to dissect every sound she heard. Soon, she felt a towering presence beside her and an extended hand holding a cup of steaming tea. She settled her brush and palette at the table near her and accepted the tea offered with her paint-covered hand.

"Thanks."

Two meters away from her and the little marred painting, Kashiwagi sat upon the tatami mat. Yumi took her time finishing her drink, and when she was done, she settled her cup on her table (with the rest of her materials, some emitting odious odors, some containing harmful chemicals) and resumed working.

She still felt that Kashiwagi was not removing himself from his position. A little self-conscious, she hid it by remarking, "Did you get tired from watching the stars?" She looked at him tediously.

He said nothing, just shifted his legs to cross them. With both hands, he brought his cup near his lips and sipped. Yumi was sure that he knew the underlying meaning of her question a while ago but he chose to ignore it. Had he not realized that she preferred to be alone while working? She tolerated before because he was _outside _the room, gawking at whatever lies beyond. She continued to warn him with her glare.

He stood and looked down at her, containing the staring contest. Then he asked, extending his hand, "Where is your cup?"

She turned away, got the cup from the table, and gave it to his extended hand. He took it but he looked at her a little longer than was appropriate. She frowned at this, realizing how familiar, heady, and dangerous the atmosphere was. Maybe, Sei was right?

"Thank you." He formally replied.

Then, he went out to his former spot outside, and continued enjoying his tea. She heard another pour from the teapot.

When she realized that it was already midnight, Kashiwagi was not there anymore. Neither was the tea set.

She remarked to herself, as she turned off the lights and closed the doors of her workroom, that Shimata's blend of tea was delicious.

Every night seemed to be like a series of déjà vu, with slight variations. They could be the drink that Kashiwagi would bring with him as he watched the stars, the topics that they briefly talked about, and the duration their staring game would be. At first she would not care, but lately, every move that she took, every respond she made, was already deliberate, intentional, and calculated. She felt that Kashiwagi was doing the same.

She'd play. If he were as Sei had suggested, she'd play along, pretending to be indulging at moments like this. Would she play along, seemingly enjoying the ride? And see how things lead to another?

It continued for the few consecutive nights. This time, he went there with tea again.

With all the days that she found Kashiwagi liking too much this arrangement, Yumi had no patience to keep her curiosity to herself, thus she spoke first (this shall not repeat again).

Sitting on her stool in front of the second Hinata piece, "I know that stars are worth gazing at, but don't you have anyone to spend nights with? You know, a girlfriend or a lover, perhaps?" She asked ascerbically.

"Tea?"

"Yeah, thanks. But," she inhaled, "don't you have better things to do?"

"You don't like my company?" His eyes looked at her with amusement, yet his face tensed. Yumi inwardly rolled her eyes at Kashiwagi's attempt to drop the topic. He dispensed tea to another cup and was about to stand to come inside her workroom.

"Oh," Yumi wheezed. "Never mind."

(Maria-sama, this is hard.)

"Yes, I have nothing else to do." He handed her the hot drink. She scowled, not satisfied with the answer. He continued, "I'm home. When you're at home, it means that you have nothing else to do, a very remarkable woman once said."

He offered the tea once more, clasping it nearer to her, "Tea." She wanted to counter that with an incredulous retort, but she felt tired for it. She accepted.

Then, there was silence as they sipped their tea. Yumi remarked, "Did Shimata-san prepare this? The tea, I mean."

He nodded, then, she said, rather a little embarrassed, "It's very good." She could not remember the last time she openly complemented someone she barely knew.

"I'll make sure Shimata-san would hear that." He smiled warmly at her.

Silently, Yumi could not discern the sudden affection. Then the woman snickered at the first thing that came to her when the smile finally sunk in. (A lover, proud of his partner's work?) She eyed him coyly. He raised a brow. "So that's why you won't answer my first question."

"Your imagination runs wild." He rejected.

She put the cup on the table, and resumed working. She mumbled, "I mean, that's nothing to be ashamed of," as she dabbed the tip of his brush to the wet paint at her palette.

"True. But should you ask your employer personal matter so casually?" His eyes darted through her eyes like swords.

"It was a joke. I'm sorry if I offended you." She meant every word, but she did not falter. "This is all a joke. What are we, really? I clearly remembered the first time we had _sake _here. Forget employer-employee relationship, you remember? The informal conversations? Oh, wait, did I mention when you hit on me _first_ back at your hotel? You saved me, and thank you; I am really grateful of that. But after I realized that it was probably a time that you were not yourself, the jokes stopped and I steered clear. But, since we came back from Musashino, this has been the arrangement. I don't know where to place myself. It's an endless cycle. Sir," she breathed as she kept her temper in check, "I hope you won't take offence on my questions."

She was still sitting on her stool, holding her palette and brush. He was still standing, boring her eyes down to her.

"Fair enough." He said; his voice deep and businesslike. "I like you. I don't know how to act properly towards a person I'm interested to, particularly to someone as difficult, erratic, and baffling as you are. Grumpy at one time, then coy the next moment. You, which of those are you?"

He stood straight and aimed for Yumi's cup, reaching over Yumi's shoulders. "I'll take this," he said.

Then, he went out to his usual spot outside. He settled their two cups at the wooden tray and poured another helping on his own. Then he drank as he was looking at the stars.

Yumi still watched his every move until now, flabbergasted. Wait, what the fuck was that?

A confession or an insult?

* * *

A call reached Yoshino. When she asked who it was, it was Touma Sachiko on the other line. She braced herself, as Yuuki used another phone to let him hear the conversation.

"Yes, Touma Sachiko-san?"

/ Good day, Shimazu-san, I'm sorry I called on such short notice, but I want just to ask . . . _eto _. . . about Yumi-san. If you happened to talk to her lately. /

Yuuki glared at his partner, unknown of what was going on, but Yoshino just glared back, and mouthed (_Calm down! Explain later._) to the detective and immediately went back on replying to the caller, "Touma-san, I was able to meet her recently, when I was in Kyoto."

/ I see. Is she . . . is she doing well? /

Yuuki continued glaring. Yoshino ignored him, and answered in a very saddened voice, "Well . . . I wouldn't say that she's all right, but she's still there for work, you see. It was taking most of her time. Her current employer, Kashiwagi Suguru-san was—"

/ I'm sorry, Yoshino-san, but . . . /

Yoshino narrowed her eyes, as she picked her words carefully, "Sachiko-sama, what's wrong?" She took a moment, then: "You can tell me anything . . . as a friend; I'd like to help too, not just to find her painting, but to protect Yumi too."

/ I'm just worried about her. /

"What about her?"

/ It's nothing. When you mentioned her employer's name, I just remembered that he was my husband's classmate at Hanadera . . . /

It was now Yoshino's turn to raise a brow and look at Yuuki. The latter quickly get a memopad and a pen and rapidly wrote: [ Just let her talk about Kashiwagi. ]

"Yes?"

/ Keep a very keen eye on Yumi? Please. I'm very sorry to be asking too much of you. /

"Don't worry, Sachiko-san. We are on the same team." Yoshino pronounced assuringly.

/ Thank you, Yoshino-san. /

They said their goodbyes and hung up the phone. There was a huge sigh from the receiver of the call.

"_Protect_. That's your bait." Yuuki deadpanned. "What were you trying to pull this time?"

Yoshino settled the phone away from her. "She's on the move."

Yuuki replied. "She seemed to be worried greatly when you mentioned Kashiwagi Suguru . . ."

"Possible business rivals? It would make sense on the surface, but it makes no sense to me. Why was she concerned about Yumi's safety? The only thing that connects Kashiwagi to Sachiko was her husband. I found nothing wrong with that. Those two don't connect. Could she know something we don't about Kashiwagi? And she was making sure if we found something about him that would worry us or concern Yumi."

"You still haven't answered my first question. What are you up to?"

"Before, no one in our three names is moving, that's why things are getting stale. Stagnant. Sachiko is now moving. It won't be far long for others to join her. I'm expecting for Kashiwagi Suguru, to be the first. Few knew of his past reputation. Yet, her main concern was Yumi. She won't ask someone like me to protect Yumi; she'll do it personally. But still, I need more."

"Kashiwagi? How would you say that?"

Yoshino frowned. "The night when at the party? We all just focused of Sachiko's exhibition but never the people who were present. Nobody noticed Yumi walked out. But I saw them."

Yuuki eyes were fixed at her. "Saw who?"

Yoshino leaned back on her seat, speaking dramatically, as if reading from a book, "Yumi's redemption-in-the-rain moment, and Kashiwagi's prince-like rescue of Yumi from the apparently evil-witch Sachiko. His vengeful stare against the enemy; her challenging glare. All centered for the sake of the princess. You get what I mean?"

Then she found officers, uniform and not, staring at her from their tables. One guy even had his jaw suspended as he was about to drink his coffee. "Maria-sama. I just made a fool out of myself, didn't I?"

"You don't say." The detective was not amused. "How could you relate that to the painting?"

"It was always about the painter, not the painting's worth." Yoshino looked at Yuuki with determined eyes. "Soon, it will show up. Someone will let it appear right before our eyes."

* * *

Touma Sachiko was very intimidating—a person that no one could trifle with. Yet, there's another person, much powerful than her; her Grandfather, who was the head of the family's powerful empire. He could only serve one, yet, when the grandfather demanded that he should be informed of what her granddaughter had been up to, should he obey? Because he already had orders from her.

The agent was sitting on a lone table at a coffeeshop at downtown Kyoto. At the Kinomoto compound, this was purchased by a businessman named Kashiwagi Suguru years ago, currently and temporarily resided Fukuzawa Yumi, who has been his target for several days. He was asked a very close surveilance on her. Thus far, nothing ordinary had been happening. She was there in her workroom, her doors wide open, working until midnight. His employer seemed to take a liking for her, for he frequently was staying outside her room until she finished. They talked from time to time. They shared tea or _sake, _depending on what the man brought.

"He could pay you thrice of what the young Ogasawara had offered." The man wearing a fedora in front of him said.

"I tell you, even with such large sum you offer, it would be a waste of money to buy me off, because she just ordered me to watch over her." The agent replied.

"What I want is the information you're giving her about Fukuzawa Yumi."

The agent gritted. "Fine. For old time's sake. You want information? Here's one: the grandfather is paranoid over his grandchild. I am just watching over her." Then, he snorted, "We work for the same family, have the same rank, yet here we are, intercepting one another for each family member. It's no wonder they don't get along."

The fedora man drank his coffee. "Last question. After that, we'll part ways, and forget this whole thing. I'll just report that I personally investigated." When the agent gave his approval, the fedora guy lowered his voice, and asked, "Did Touma Sachiko contact Fukuzawa Yumi recently?"

The agent replied, concluding that his answer would be no harm to both his employer and target, said, "No, not at all."

The man below the fedora sighed. "Then, that's fine with me." He stood from his seat, put bills on the table, and left the table.

"Next time, do your own sleuthing." The agent drank the contents of his cup and sighed. The esspresso suddenly tasted bland.

The man with fedora, after walking several blocks away from the café, picked his phone from his pocket and dialed.

"Yes, Touma-sama has her in close watch."

* * *

"He called me."

She pretended not to hear anything, and intended to stay quiet for the rest of the evening. Even with Kashiwagi's puzzling statement, Yumi was determined not to let her guard down once more, not after what happened yesternight. She decided not to let that memory stick too much to her brain because she learned her lesson. She was not fond of confessions, in ways that a normal person would. She felt very old whenever she would hear something like that from someone, ever since she started to have little distractions here and there, after she felt that she got over Sachiko. She knew the price she paid for that: her old self. Confessions for her were a distant experience, a sort of thing that was usually done by teenagers still entrapped with their own fairy-tale version of love.

In all those years, she intended to remain alone, but those who come and even chase after her was not under her control. She remembered Touko saying that people always have affinity for her, that she always attracts people, no matter what she does. For a while, she bitterly denied that, when she was still angry of herself and Sachiko. But as time went by, she can't help it anymore. Somehow, the old habits rose up from their graves, and periodically, she had a lover or two. They would always come and go. There were no silly confessions, just the work of intuition then action. Lust explodes, and when the aftermaths dissipate, they went on separate ways. Some remarkable, some just to past the time.

She laughed quietly; how cruel she was to herself, living along that pathetic circle, after she experienced the bitterness of a failed first love.

She continued with her work.

He continued to look at the stars; a cup full of tea in one hand and a tea set beside him.

"Touma Ryu," he spoke again. "Have I mentioned that he's my high school classmate?"

No, he never mentioned that. Not in their sporadic conversations. She remained quiet.

"I guess I didn't. You see, he and his wife will be in Kyoto. They will leave tomorrow."

She tried not to flinch at the mention of Touma's wife.

"And they will stay here, because he wanted to see his old friend, Touma said. That bastard always has excuses for everything. Just because I was not able to meet him at that stupid party, it was now my obligation to be hospitable."

He stayed outside, and for the painter, the distance from her stool to the wooden floor he was sitting at and the paper doors the separated them was some sort of a barrier that made him cocky enough to push her limits. The reason he was telling her this, she did not know, and had no reason to. She could stay inside her workroom all day long, painting for hours until midnight, going out to the dining area to eat, then retreat back to her bedroom, without even knowing that Sachiko and his husband were even there. With such a large compound, _of course,_ there is a high chance of never encountering them. It will be all too easy. But still, how fate surprised her.

She could not bite her tongue. "Then, I will not be in you or your visitors' way."

The painter continued to work. She was glad that she was not working on a very delicate portion of the Hinata, but she still kept her head cool. She heard a low chuckle.

"He mentioned you. He wanted to meet you. He was one of your _fanboys_."

"What a depreciating term." (Work. Work. Work. Where is that aquamarine that I blended a while ago? Where is it? Goddammit. Oh, there, just right in front of me.)

"I want you to be there with me."

(Aquamarine. Aquamarine. No, use the smaller brush for that. No, not that one; _that one. _Hey, clean it first, idiot.) "_No_, that won't be possible."

"I will not repeat myself."

(Had anyone ever notice how everything seemed so vivid and loud and clear—the sounds of birds chirping in the night, the periodic sharp clash of bamboo against a rock, the minute clumps of paint in that stupid aquamarine pigment, the coldness of the air that could almost tell its exact temperature by Celcius—when totally pissed off?)

She inhaled deeply, then released it all out. "As much as people underestimate me, I read my contracts, Kashiwagi-sama. I don't remember agreeing in following orders from you aside from restoring your work."

"You want to get over Touma Sachiko, don't you? I know you'll be brave and face her. You don't deserve being so pathetic, cowering and running whenever she is around. Well now is the right moment to do so."

"What are you thinking?"

"You." He said it almost like a question. "As much as I like your spunk, it would be very interesting how you'll survive your greatest weakness."

True, she wasn't able to hide her fear from Kashiwagi, and for that she momentarily regretted him saving her that night at the party. She spat, "Megalomaniac." She stood from her stool and went outside, her hands balled to fists. "Now, where was this man who confessed to me last night? Using insults to describe how interesting I am?" She taunted. But sarcasm did not reach her eyes.

Kashiwagi looked up. "What I said yesterday was true. I do like you. I want to treat you as an equal. But you hate being pitied. No matter how I try not to pity you, hearing you opposing to face her again makes me do so. It's tiring to be angry all the time, isn't it? And yet, anger is not entirely what you feel about her. It is more of a . . . collage of emotions. It makes you feel tired, doesn't it? It makes you do something you are not. It makes you a coward."

_Coward_. She flinched visibly. She became that when she decided to end her old self.

"Show me how strong you are."

He poured tea to another cup, solely reserved for Yumi. "Tea."

* * *

Sachiko called. Her husband and Kashiwagi Suguru, those former classmates at Hanadera Private Academy for Boys, would meet at Kyoto. They will reside at the Kinomoto compound for the rest of couple's stay there.

Yoshino sighed. She would really pull her heir out if _nothing_ would change after that.

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N: **I _really_ hope you did not skip anything above, no matter how long the chapter was. This chapter is not beta-ed. Now, for the _clarifications_:

**(1)** I told you before (in the second chapter) that Kashiwagi was not known to Yumi and Sachiko during their high school days. Gingkgo prince, which he was known to be in the Marimite canon, did not exist. Therefore, he was not the reason why Yumi and Sachiko were brought close together.

**(2)** When Sachiko was the en bouton petit souer, Kashiwagi was the dragon/shadow member of the student council; therefore, they did not meet.

**(3)** Touma Ryu was then the president of the Hanadera council the time when Sachiko was the Rosa Chinensis en bouton. Sachiko was known to boycott the Hanadera boys ever since she was a first year but stopped when Yumi became her petit souer in her second year. Do you want a retelling of how Yumi and Sachiko met? I tell you, they knew each other since that same Lillian festival and Yamayurikai play. I have a pretty clear idea how they met, and it was a bit closer to the canon, but I can't just put in the regular chapters. If you want it, tell me, and I'll provide.

**(4)** *ya-chan: short for yakuza. That term is somewhat like the term Voldemort in Harry Potter; it's bad to openly say it.

These notes were made to inform you about the situation of the past because I could not even include this in the narration. Sorry for being lame; I just could not type it down.

_Please review!_ I reread the comments, all of them were quite detailed and personal, and I can't help but thank those who constantly commented and read. I was quite away from the site for a while, but seeing your comments was very inspiring. I treasure every review!


	13. Chapter 13

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

CHAPTER 13

* * *

Touma Sachiko, formally known as Ogasawara Sachiko, the sole heir of the Ogasawara Zaibatsu, the first female heir, fourth generation.

It was not a secret to the elite how Sachiko had been the first female heir—she was a legitimate Ogasawara offspring. However, sex must be a very cruel fate to tinker. Fifty percent of such a chance would please or disappoint a very traditional family, whose legacy passes from the male firstborns of the family. For three generations, there were successions of good luck, but when the fourth came, the patriarch then was a little dissatisfied. How preposterious this game of chance was for Ogasawara Tooru and Sayako. They knew that they would still love their daughter as they would love a son, but the patriarch was not amused. He demanded a male heir.

Tooru and Sayako tried and tried. Particularly, Sayako, who Tooru himself chose to be his wife. Her family was honored to give her away to a very old and powerful family, thus reminded Sayako of how they have been very grateful for marrying up—afterall, the family had proven worthy of giving their most prized possession. Sayako was trained for this moment—the moment that she would be marrying into the Ogasawara and birthed the fourth heir that would continue its name. Yet, in the role that she would have done so perfectly, she failed to give a male heir. In the midst of her hallucination, never-ending pain, and fatigue, she had found out that she gave birth to a beautiful girl. The newly born infant cried loudly, a manifestation of the strength of her character. At first gulp of air, she already had the bearing of the Ogasawara—imposing, confident, and demanding. She cried haughtily, demanding the warmth of her mother. While she was being cleaned, she still wailed for her mother in shrieking demands, only to stop when Sayako reached out her suddenly empowered arms and hold her daughter above her swollen chest. There, the newborn gave her first sound of satisfaction—a sigh—that made Sayako hold the baby tightly, possessively, as sleep was finally seizing her and muttered the name, "Sachiko."

Tooru heard her almost subliminal utterance like sirens of the ambulance, and he proclaimed it their daughter's name, as he watched both women of his life slumbered. Sachiko was like her mother—very quiet at sleep. Tooru was already satisfied and was prepared to live a happy life, when his father knocked three times at the door and stared at Tooru with blank eyes.

He wanted a grandson.

It was hard to produce Sachiko.

Sayako had been very indulging, the perfect bride for Tooru; she was a willing flower as well as a submissive one. He could see his mother in Sayako—a stunning, angelic, majestic woman, whose dark blue eyes shone as she reach for his son and embrace him tightly, as if she wanted him nowhere else than her engulfing arms. Tooru had a brief memory of her, but still, he tried his hardest not to forget her face, scent, and warmth. He found that in Sayako. He thought that she was his first decision that he chose for himself; he did not let his father interfere with matters such as marriage. He picked keenly a girl that fitted perfectly for the role as the next heir's mother. As a man, it was his right to do so. Therefore, when his grandfather found that Tooru's first child was a girl, he gave him a stare that could slice boulders in clean halves. He knew the reason for his father's disappointment.

Again, it was hard to produce Sachiko.

It would have been easier if Sachiko were a sure arrow piercing through the center of a straw butt; it was more of a series of hit and miss. She being born almost labeled a miracle. Yet, as time passed, even with many attempts to hit the red circle of that straw butt, Tooru and Sayako never again were able to produce another child. And concurrent with that was the growing coldness of Tooru's father towards Sayako—an evidence that he should have been the one that picked a more suitable wife for his son. Living in the same roof, Sayako had tried her best to please his father-in-law, but to no avail. He was not able to have the grandson that he wanted.

It was all absurd for Tooru, who considered his father as a dormant lunatic, blaming it all to Sayako. She could never pick out the sex of the child—it should come into the world to love and be loved, regardless of its sex. But with years and years of verbal and emotional torment from his father, he became restless and careless, to the point that he did not want to go home, just to see his father flashing how Tooru disappointed him, like neon lights in a disco. Soon, Sayako and Tooru could not even console themselves and each other. Tooru began to drift his attention away from home; Sayako began to focus more on being the Stepford wife that she used to dread of becoming.

Sachiko knew of all of these. Her mother was successful at first in keeping the harsh nature of the household, and his father doted much of his time with them, as any good father would do. In the days of her childhood, she thought that they were the best, and no one could ever replace them. She loved them both that she would do anything for their sake—all that she had done, she had been told to do, and she would do were to honor her father and mother, as a tribute for their devotion. Yet, as she grew up, her eyes and ears developed more sensitive too; she was now noticing tiny rips of what she thought as an impeccable family picture.

She grew up surpassing more than what everyone expected her to be. Sachiko was perfection, from her manners to her academics. She had flaws too, but they were much understandable as a fraction of the Ogasawara traits. She could be arrogant, selfish. But it was also the Ogasawara way. She could be arrogant, because she deserved it.

Yet, the façade of her happy family was eating her slowly; damaging her soul openly that Tooru and Sayako believed that they were so unworthy of such a perfect child like her. The perfect Sachiko was being blemished by the imprudence of her parents, and the constant criticism of her grandfather. She had one thing in her mind: to be someone worthy of the highest position in the family business, when his father would retire in the far future. She would surpass the past four generations and would make overkill. It was the only way to redeem her parents' confidence, and her revolt against her grandfather.

It would not be wise to attack offensively and openly. Thus, she did it first with subtlety, with small things. If the first little disobedience agaist the arrogant nature of the Ogasawara ideals could be done, then the next bigger disobedience would be possible. School first, then her grandfather, then the world.

She would never understand why his father had never been able to love her mother completely. She would _never_ understand that. Her mother always taught her to listen intently without turning back, to never look but see, to grieve without crying. In Sachiko's childhood, at barely the age of three, many times Sayako repeated those as if it were her dying wish, particularly at times when Tooru had gone to a faraway land for his job. She would remind her everytime they lie down on Sachiko's four-poster bed, talking about dashing princes and marble-glazed castles. Before she slept, Sayako's words about not looking but seeing, not hearing but listening, and grieving without crying were what she remembered most, not the fairy-tales she read to her. She never understood her mother. Not until she found out, years later, that the Ogasawara men were known to have mistresses.

Tooru, her father, was a kind man. But he was weak . . . weak because he lived with everyone's expectations, leaving Sayako to a nightmare that she had to endure forever. Sachiko hated the men of Ogasawara.

The first time that she defied his grandfather was when she accepted Mizuno Youko's proposal of being her petit soeur. Youko was all a perfect student and a loving and doting Onee-sama, but one thing that made her an abberation to be associated with the family was her social status. She was beneath the family—no, beneath Sachiko's social circle. Youko was as accomplished as she was—excellent in everything that she did, has a cool temperament, a competent and wise leader. It was not at all entirely a problem until Youko suggested that she'd stop all her private tutelage, which was all ordered by the family patriarch. It annoyed him. Her father talked to her about it. Yet, Sachiko reasoned that she had better follow her elders, and that it would be for her own growth—to learn newer things other than ladylike skills. She reasoned that she'd be very _limited_ if she could not experience the other side of the fence. Youko's garden—the rest of the world.

Then came Fukuzawa Yumi, a girl with plain charm, plain social status, and average accomplishments. Sachiko was hoarding friends who are beneath her, and soon, they were beginning to poison the fourth generation with simpletons and exposing her to the vulgarity of the world other than their own. The grandfather had known her little schemes, the reason behind her uncharacteristic actions. He remained silent and unresponsive to those hidden acts of rebellion, because he knew that when an oppurtunity stroke, he would seize it.

Sachiko was beginning to enjoy the company of the Yamayurikai. Soon, she forgot why she was there all along—the acts of rebellion—and turned her mere pawns to good friends. She surprisingly found herself enamored with Youko's resolved elegance, Sei's rough wisdom, Eriko's breezy disinterest, Rei's dynamic femininity, Shimako's unfaltered tranquility, Yoshino's bottled fervor.

And Yumi's brightness. Everything about her shone. She was the antithesis of what Sachiko was. And she was attracted to how Yumi deviate so much in the Ogasawara tradition that she had lived almost all her life. Yet, Yumi shone. There was such a person that could be so angelic, so cheerful, so satisfied, and so happy even without the Ogasawara ideals. She wanted a piece of that. She was thankful that she met Yumi.

And after the freedom she felt inside the Lillian garden, she was once again tormented by her grandfather's orders. She gave up Yumi to be with his grandfather's choice, Touma Ryu.

Yet, with all which she could have experience outside her family's clutches, why did she choose not to rebel entirely—to separate herself from her fate? To love Yumi completely and freely? To fight for her position in the family as the sole heir? What was there that chained Sachiko so well?

What did her grandfather do to Sachiko that made her yield miserably?

Yuuki pondered, as he looked at the picture that Touko gave him when they talked about the Ogasawara family. She knew what was happening inside, for her parents had been kind enough to disclose information regarding their relatives. After all, it was retaliation for what they had done to disgrace the Matsudaira family—they bullied Touko knowing that she was an adopted child. Even with that, Touko's parents were enraged by the insult—even without the ties of the blood, Touko was considered proudly as the heir of the Matsudaira family. And that was eternal.

The detective settled the picture on his table, letting Yoshino have her turn to look. Yet, the agent could not even touch it. Rei was reluctant in exposing what she knew about Sachiko—but the more that she talked, the more that Yoshino realized how sorrowful Rei was in keeping them. She said that she needed someone to talk about it. Yet, when Yoshino asked the reason why Sachiko left Yumi, she said that she did not know. Sachiko did not mention it to her, and dared not to open the topic. Yet, _that_ was what her raven-haired cousin wanted to know the most.

Yuuki and Yoshino had been working on such a complicated jigsaw puzzle, searching for missing information, giving assumptions for the story to make sense. It did, somehow, when Yuuki and Yoshino combined what they knew with Rei's confessions and Touko's statements.

The picture of Yumi, Touko and Sachiko, wearing their Lillian uniforms, standing proudly before a boquet of blood red roses sitting upon a porcelain vase. It was inside the salon of the Rose Mansion, where all of them were tied by friendship, duty for the school, and love. Yumi was grinning brightly, showing ample amounts of white teeth; Sachiko was showing amusement with her wide smile and bright eyes, while Touko was smiling nervously at the center, her brows a little tense.

Yuuki looked at Yumi, more closely to the confident, goofy grin. Where was that now? When would be the time that he would see her smile, without the bitter leer afterwards?

Yoshino looked away from the picture, thinking of Ogasawara Sachiko, and of how Yoshino watched the sempai with her petit seour during the course of her duties inside the Yamayurikai. The Ogasawara successor had been happy the moment she became a member of the student council, and doubled more when she had Yumi as her little sister. Many wanted to be like her, to experience even for just a single day how to be an Ogasawara. But the truth was no one in the Yamayurikai—those who had known her best—wanted to be like her. Not even Yumi.

* * *

How strong Yumi was? She is, and she would prove it wonderfully, and shove it to Kashiwagi's egotistical ass. Yes, that was a challenge that she was irking to get through and done with. It would be like killing two birds with one stone; they were Sachiko and Kashiwagi. She never thought how coincidental everything was, and how they fit in one point of her life where everyone seemed to be drawn close to her once more. Her painting was stolen, then here came Sachiko, who she was trying to avoid (to protect herself), then came Kashiwagi with his commission, who was Touma Ryu's former classmate at Hanadera, who was now Sachiko's husband. Then, there's Yuuki and Yoshino looking for her stuff. How _inspiring_ it was for her to connect all the dots.

He was taking too long—Kashiwagi, that is.

For the first time in many nights, he was not there at his usual spot at the hallway beside her workroom, because he went away early to meet his friend, Touma Ryu, and Sachiko. He would wait for them at the airport; other than that information, she did not ask more. Yet, she wondered where they would be at this hour. The time was close to eight in the evening, and she was getting a little hungry.

Her eyes drifted to the empty hallway, but she mentally snapped herself and proceeded with her job.

No. The truth that she was fucking terrified for all its worth. Can she, even with everything that she had gone through, not spare herself with feelings like that? She is terrified with what she would do, of what she would feel if she would face the couple that she abhored? She was terrified of the embarrassment that she would endure every single damning moment that she'd see Kashiwagi, because if she failed, he won't stop reminding her of how pathetic she was. No confession would ever erase that possibility from her mind. She saw Kashiwagi's approach to help her, she did not even ask for it, or why he was doing it, but she knew what Kashiwagi was trying to impart. As proud as he was, he appeared to her to be innocently cruel. She just _couldn't_ pinpoint where.

It was an hour later and a knock was heard at her door. The old woman in dull kimono stood by the slightly opened slide doors. Yumi stood up to do her a greeting, but afterwards, the old woman said that Kashiwagi needed her to be there at the living area to be with his esteemed guests. She looked at Yumi with straight eyes, and the latter nodded and said, "Yes, thank you. I'll be there after I finish cleaning my hands."

The woman bowed down, and waited inconspicuously outside. Yumi dabbed the paint upon her hands with wet cloth, removing stains but not entirely cleaning it. Then she removed her apron and settled it on her stool and went out of her workroom, and was led by the old woman to the living area. On the way, she could not feel her hands.

Carpal tunnel*, maybe? It felt that way.

When she saw them, a large low table was already set, which meant that there were to eat dinner yet. She felt a little growl in her stomach, for which the thought of food suddenly induced her body be feeling hungry. It was already nine in the evening, and she had not eaten since lunch.

Sachiko was still as beautiful as ever; her long, straight, black hair was shining bluish against the flourescent light and her face majestic. Even if she was considered the devil in Yumi's eyes, devils had their reputations of being so illusionary—they tend to be so easthetically beautiful. That's why artists are said to be attracted to devils and angels at the same time. Touma Ryu was as princely as he could be with his bright smile and expressive dark eyes.

_Yeah, yeah_, they're a good couple to look at, alright. No doubt about that. Bitterness and sarcasm were fighting for dominance against reason in her brain; she always have both in normal occassions but seeing Sachiko and Ryu and _eating_ with them and the inevitable chance of _talking_ to them were cruel jokes indeed. And she thought that they would already part ways after that party. Releasing her feelings for this moment is a terrible cut through her pride. She won't let that happen. She then bowed to the visitors, saying that she was sorry to intrude into the group. When she looked at Kashiwagi to give him her challenging eye, he greeted it with a smirk.

Bastard.

But she would be lying if she did not feel any pang of hurt as she motioned herself to a seat near Kashiwagi and look directly at the couple sitting in front of her. She almost wished she was in Ryu's place—some part of her feelings still yearned that. But most of it was determined to desensitize her heart, to fucking brave it, as suggested by Kashiwagi. Running away from Sachiko won't make her proud of herself; more so, it was degrading, especially when she found herself opposing Kashiwagi not to meet them.

_Coward_, he accused her. Why did he have to intrude in her business? She regretted biting the bait, but it was too late now. She already started doing what Kashiwagi challenged her to do.

Sachiko was polite as she should be, smiling at his husband's wit, voicing out her own opinions. Ryu was eager to listen to her, and was not afraid to counter her. He treated her nothing like what Sachiko described men to be years ago—domineering, chauvinistic, cold. In all ways that Yumi judged his character, she found nothing that could harm Sachiko. If a man were unkind to his wife, it would always show in the way he treat her outside—no matter how secretive and watchful he was of himself. Yumi was seeing what she used to be years ago in Ryu. She was seeing her old self before Sachiko broke her heart.

For a moment, she could not look at him.

It was true, what Sachiko had told before to her back at the rooftop of the gallery; he was a good man.

They talked about current events, which Yumi had no interest but still listened. While politics dominated the discussion—the current workings of the Diet, the prime minister's approval ratings, etcetera, etcetera—she just kept her opinions to herself and let Sachiko, Ryu and (sometimes) Kashiwagi converse to one another. Ryu had been the most animated, which made Kashiwagi roll his eyes, which Yumi found to be his sort of reflex. As if he was still not used to Ryu even though they claimed that they were classmates years back. Sachiko was tolerant as ever. She laughed, and sometimes she apprehended Ryu lightly. It made Yumi think: was this the way Sachiko looked like back when we were together? Tolerant? She remembered Sachiko to be that way when they ate with friends, or with Yumi's family.

Yumi was not sure anymore of how _true_ or real their feelings were back then, but she knew that she had loved deeply. She was bitter, was she not? She hated her, didn't she? She had died years ago; she was certain of that. Wasn't it possible that what was true yesterday could not be true now? She was certain a history professor said that, years ago.

Then, Ryu began to ask Yumi about herself so eagarly that she could not even manage to stay quiet and even produce a scowl to defend herself against the man's wide grin and enthused prodding. Sachiko began to censure him quietly, but seeing her being embarrassed by his husband, Yumi then indulged him. She tried not her very best not to pepper sarcasm and mockery to her every reply, because she cannot just insult a potential sponsor. And he was Kashiwagi's friend; no matter how abnormal Kashiwagi and her relationship were, she would not embarrass his employer. To do that would be ludicrous.

Deep inside, she hated Ryu. Being with him was like being to her past self. She envied him, at his positive bearing and attitute, at the fact that she found him suitable for Sachiko. Someone could actually replace Yumi in Sachiko's heart. She was dispensable, after all. And that her grandfather was somehow right at his decision.

When she realized that, she tried to be as attentive to Ryu's soliloquy of how he admired contemporary Nihonga painters. She felt nauseous. She turned to Kashiwagi to finally signal her failure to accomplish Kashiwagi's challenge, but he just looked at her deeply and without mockery. She understood; there was no room for failure.

She would never allow herself to fail.

All the while Yumi tried not to linger too much on Sachiko's face. When she caught her looking, she just smiled, a bit embarrassed, and afterwards, proceeded to focus on the discussion that Ryu had been optimistically firing up and that Kashiwagi had been trying to quell with his indifferent eyes.

Later that night, when the visitors settled to their room, Yumi decided to go back to her workroom. She was determined to release herself from her self-inflicted angst by working on the second Hinata, but when she noticed that her next task required a very fresh and un-pressured hand, she decided she she'd just stay outside, looking at the stars. Just like Kashiwagi had been doing for the past weeks. What fascinated Kashiwagi here? What made him look at the stars?

She did not realize that she fell asleep. Her head was resting upon the wooden post at his spot. But she noticed that she felt unbelievably warm. Then, she noticed a thick, oversized haori wrapped around her. She bolted out from her sleepiness and found Kashiwagi beside her, two feet away, looking at the stars.

"Why didn't you just go to your room and sleep, instead of being here?" She asked.

"Same goes to you."

She rubbed her eyes and yawned. "How long . . . how long have you been here?"

"Long enough."

She snorted at Kashiwagi's reply. "I hate people when they answer like that. Acting all angsty and mysterious. It's infuriating. Why can't you just give a direct, precise answer?"

"Same goes for you." That same reply gained a scowl and then a smirk from the half-awake painter. "Then again, don't tease a woken snake. I am here, thirty minutes since."

She sighed, getting comfortable with the makeshift blanket. "That long. What time is it?" She asked dazedly.

He looked at his wristwatch and said stonely, "Twelve-thirty."

It had been an hour since she went here to work. She always prided herself that she could sleep anywhere and in whatever position—but sleeping outside in the cold, without any warm clothing to protect her, she was surprising herself, sometimes. If ever she had not felt the sudden warmth of the haori, she might have slumbered away until morning. And catch cold later.

"So, how was your first night in hell?" The devil asked.

She chuckled. Was today like a trip there? She was not so sure. "It's not that hard, my friend." she said smugly.

"You managed. I like that." He grinned at her boisterous claim.

"I'm glad I entertained you." She chuckled, and then yawned again, leaning her head to the post. "I'm in your spot."

"It's all right."

They watched the stars together. Soon, they retired for their room, and Yumi gave back the haori to Kashiwagi.

* * *

He saw it. Suguru walking on the corridors of Yumi's workroom and saw him removing his haori to wrap it around the painter's body. Then, he looked at her for a long time, just watching her stir as she adjusted the collar to cover her neck and lower portion of her face. Then, when he thought that the painter finally adapted to her new protection against the cold, he looked upward to the stars.

He chuckled as he headed back to his and Sachiko's quarters. Kashiwagi-san surely had weird tastes. He did not even remember if the former vice-president of the Hanadera Student Council ever had interest with girls. Maybe, due to his reputation back then, students were often afraid or intimidated by him. But seeing him like that with an employee of his made Ryu bring back a question that had been bothering him ever since he met Kashiwagi: was there ever a person that could make Kashiwagi fall apart? Because he never saw a man as latent as he was.

Ryu had no idea _how_ he became fond of stargazing; in fact, he never thought of that of Kashiwagi. Never since high school. He was never that kind of guy.

* * *

She would be lying if she were not hurt by Yumi's sudden indifference to her. Coming to Kashiwagi's home, she expected that she would be greeted with lukewarm tea splashing to her face—her most intense imagery of the moment she would meet Yumi again. She expected silent rage, the bottled simmering of her temper when they see each other face to face.

Yet, when she looked at Yumi's face the night that they'd first met after the party, it was serene, almost contemplatative. It was such a long time since she saw her face that way, and before, it never felt so natural. But now, seeing it once more, it gave her the desire to know what Yumi was thinking. In the past, whenever she saw Yumi having an expression like that, she never hesitated to ask her, as she was curious and at the same time worried of whatever that bothered her. Although, in many faces that she produce in the course of their time being together, her serene one always clouded her mind in confusion. In such a face, even she, the person who once had Yumi's heart, could not read her.

That night, Yumi was first to excuse herself from the group, reasoning out that her work needed to be attended—she dismissed herself with a low nod to us, thanking to Ryu for his fervent support for Nihonga and her works, then to her employer, which took more than the appropriate time in a bowing position. When Yumi looked levelly at Kashiwagi-san's eyes, it was as if Sachiko was intruding a very personal—no, intimate conversation. Kashiwagi's stare was very palpable; Ryu was smart enough not to comment, for which Sachiko was thankful. Then, Kashiwagi dismissed her, with a bow of his own. She went outside the corridor and to her said workroom. The room became quiet all of a sudden.

Ryu then tried to extract from Kashiwagi-san the particular commission Yumi was doing, but the latter just gave him a sigh and muttered a phrase close to none of Ryu's business. Ryu chuckled at him being too stiff, but Kashiwagi-san just rolled his eyes. Soon, they separated to go to their chambers. It was already twelve when Ryu told her that she should go first in the bathroom, so she did. Sachiko left for the late bath and was there for almost thirty minutes. When she was heading back, upon the hallway, she saw where Yumi's workroom was. As she walked on, she saw Yumi sitting, covered with haori, and watching the sky. Sachiko felt that this moment was an oppurtunity to talk to her privately, without her husband or Kashiwagi-san's presence. But as she got nearer, Kashiwagi-san appeared to her view, sitting beside Yumi, watching the stars with her. He looked at her with a smirk on his face, and Yumi smirked back, as if he told her an inside joke.

She moved away from the view, and back to her chambers.

She felt so wrong, being jealous.

* * *

She dreamt again.

She was not sure why she woke up so calmly; when she opened her eyes she felt that she had not moved the moment she slept. Groggily, she searched for her alarm clock (she could not just leave it in her apartment at Musashino) and found once more that it was "5:59. Maria-sama," she breathed out; a simple, inanimate alarm clock was enough to rattle her senses, the first thing in the morning. "_Always_ a minute early."

She turned it off before it could anymore annoy her.

She stayed lying down for more than ten minutes, trying to remember the dream, and as she calmed herself, she began to tie cut strings and untangle knots. Her dreams were always . . . so visionary, especially when she successfully recalled the dream. Now, what was it?

It was Kashiwagi, staking her with an ex-acto knife through the chest. And she was expecting it, opening her arms wide to welcome his attack. His face was very vivid to her; his face was always blank. It was not as if she would not move at all, but she just couldn't; she was inside a painting. Her painting, the painting that she had almost forgotten—Sachiko's portrait—she was in that picture; instead of Sachiko, she was the woman in a red, opened kimono, leaning on the paper sliding door, eyes looking at her attacker. When Kashiwagi, in his yukata, pierced her exposed chest, she woke up.

Ex-acto knife. Always with the fucking stabbing. In the chest. Always like that, to kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.

* * *

During breakfast, she was met by the usual early bird, Kashiwagi, who was sipping his morning coffee. The visitors were quite late in going to the dining area, and once more, they had the room for themselves. Shimata-san was at the far-end corner of the room, on his usual formal wear. Kashiwagi was taking turns from eating his breakfast and reading the newspaper. Yumi noted Shimata's presence as she took two eggs from the serving plate and greeted him. "Shimata-san."

Shimata's reply was courteous. "Good morning, mistress."

This made Kashiwagi sneer and take a sip of his coffee longer than usual. Yumi was amused by Shimata's way of addressing her, as if he just mentioned a good joke that made the usual stoic Fukuzawa Yumi laugh with uncontrollable glee. "Really," she said with a sleazy grin, and asked Shimata if she could be considered as an _Ojou-sama_. Shimata remained calm and detached from her ministrations, but Yumi deadpanned, saying, "I don't think a woman who's very difficult, erratic, and baffling as I am could be considered as one." Then, she laughed for the sake of it. Shimata offered a concerned brow to Kashiwagi, and the latter looked away.

"Are you all right, Yumi Ojou-sama?" Shimata inquired.

Instead, Kashiwagi answered for her. "Don't mind her," as if he were saying that she was not herself today. And she was not. She just diverted her attention to Shimata-san, to avoid Kashiwagi and his weird stares. She wanted none of it for now. Thankful was she when she found out that the Touma's were not there yet. But then, a consumed egg and toast later, Sachiko and Ryu walked in; Yumi noticed Shimata's posture to be all stiff and strained than before. That made her wonder; was he having stomach problems or something?

"Shimata-san, deliver my letters to my study." Kashiwagi ordered abruptly, urgent to remove his butler away from the vicinity.

Yumi was a little surprised by the order—usually, this was the moment when butlers were required the most, so as the visitors be attended by the best man in the household staff. But Kashiwagi dismissed him anyway, not even noting Shimata's reluctance and his somewhat constipated face. The butler did not even give a formal dismissal speech like he used to. It was weird, indeed, yet Kashiwagi shrugged it off like the breadcrumbs on his fingers.

Two toasts, an egg and a black coffee later, Yumi dismissed herself from the table. She rather leave than comment on Sachiko being able to remove herself from bed before her usual wake-up call, which Yumi knew by heart ever since the first time she took a week with Sachiko in the latter's summerhouse back in second year high school. She noticed that she had long passed her morning anemia. Yumi ate efficiently, refusing herself to talk, barely nodding to agree whatever Ryu was saying, just to get out of everyone's way. For the first time in many years, she became disinclined in pushing buttons of anyone adjacent to her.

How capricious she was, being so uncharacteristingly cheeky at the start, then turned grouchy the next. Kashiwagi was right; she was erratic.

* * *

Evening came, and as usual, she made it through just like yesternight. She ate, entertained Ryu's stories of the couple's business trip downtown, and gave Sachiko polite yet detached civility. The dinner did not last very long, but something was different from the first night.

"Kashiwagi-san, could you let me see Yumi-sensei's commissions?"

Yumi knew that her employer's answer, yet, something in her wanted to know how Kashiwagi would react to that. "No, definitely not." It was not a gracious reply.

She found Kashiwagi once more at his spot outside her workroom with his tea set. She noticed another empty cup besides her own. Enticed by the scent, she fought the urge to go out and ask for tea. That would be too rude—no, shit . . . she was not herself again.

Kashiwagi broke the silence. "Aren't you getting tired?"

"Of what?"

"Of hating her."

The evening was quiet, supplementing the eerie feeling of gloom between the employer and the employee. Kashiwagi's voice did not suggest confrontation, but rather a simple question that made Yumi want to answer him without inhibition. Being away from Musashino—from Sei, Touko, and even Yuuki—made her a little sentimental about herself. Even with commissions like the Kinomoto paintings, these did not make her forget the one who was just rooms away from her. "I . . ." She gulped as she stopped working, "I don't know. I do hate her, but at the same time, she makes me want to . . . it makes me live, I guess."

He poured tea to the other cup. She sat beside him, taking the cup of tea from the tea set that separated them, and drank.

She asked quietly, holding the cup with both hands and settling them to her lap, and looked at him. "What's with you and the Kinomoto?"

A moment too long, he answered sullenly. "Same as your answer. It makes me live." He looked to her eyes.

"I don't understand."

"I know."

Their lips touched; by some means, she expected it. He leaned to her, and she did not move away, neither got closer. It was too long since she was kissed by a man; for her, this was no different from a woman's. Fundamentally, both were just the same; it was all a manner of method, of intensity. Of how badly you want your lips to explore the other. Kashiwagi was unsure—that was what she read from his kiss—tentative, but warm. She even sensed the tea.

He broke the kiss gently. He leaned back and looked away to the direction of the night sky. She gazed downward, to the tray of tea set that separated them.

"Bastard." She taunted, albeit without conviction.

"Coward." He accused, but understanding.

* * *

Sachiko never saw Yumi with someone else, not ever. She could not breathe, as she watched Kashiwagi leaned over and plant a kiss on her lips—his eyes closed, his hands almost reaching out to Yumi's shoulder, but never touched it. Yumi's eyes were closed too.

She just could not breathe, feeling nauseous as her chest constricted.

The members of the Ogasawara were weak. Having the blood of her grandfather, her father, and her mother, she realized how the same she was.

* * *

On the third night, she was catatonic with her surroundings, that she had not realized that Sachiko was already at her doorstep, looking at her back as she worked her way in a tore part of second Hinata piece. She was too engrossed to it that it took at least twenty minutes for her to sit stiffly and to hold a very small brush just so she could finish a delicate inch of the _ground_. Not until Yumi broke out a heavy sigh, stretched her back and arms that Kashiwagi broke the silence and announce Sachiko's presence. He was there, sitting on his usual spot, drinking his tea. When Yumi heard the name, she hastily turned to Sachiko's direction. Kashiwagi then said, "I'll be in my office," and walked away, bringing the tea set with him.

Now, Sachiko and Yumi were alone. Sachiko closed the door of the painter's lit workroom.

"Yumi . . . –san," Sachiko greeted reluctantly.

The painter bowed, and looked at her directly, her face blank. "You don't have to do that, Sachiko," she said, noting on the presence of polite honorific. "Adding it won't change anything."

The silence that came afterwards was palpable. Yumi, not wanting quiet, silently hoped that Kashiwagi was still outside his spot, drinking tea. She then reached out for her brush and palette, and turned around. She felt weak, cowardly.

"You're right," she breathed, as she dabbed the brush repeatedly on her palette. "Ryu-san is a quite a nice man."

Sachiko found her voice just in time to make a reply. "Yes, he is. He," she smiled guiltily, "does love me."

Yumi shook her head, a quick reflex. She put down the brush and palette at the table, turned away from the painting and looked once more at Sachiko, who was still standing by the slide door. "Everybody loves you, Sachiko. Everybody loves to kiss the ground you walk on. I did. I was your secret fan, right? Back at Lillian. I would probably remain a true fan if we did not become sisters. Or lovers, perhaps."

"Don't say that."

"Yeah, I _dare_ say," Yumi bit her lips as she tried not to swallow her tongue. "It's true. When you told me you loved me, I was very happy. But I knew, even before, even the time you kissed me at that playground, I know it won't last long. Yet," she breathed, "yet you promised so convincingly. You look so determined back then. You told me to trust you. I did, very much, without any doubt."

"I'm sorry." Sachiko tears were flowing down her cheeks.

"You should be." Yumi could not glare at Sachiko anymore; she was now slowly peeling off her heart in front of Sachiko. "You lied to me. You cheated me. You betrayed me. You . . . you de . . ."

Three strides and Sachiko was now holding Yumi firmly in her arms. Yumi was still sitting on the stool; she was using all the energy left in her just to break away, but Sachiko's hold on her was stronger than she was. "Get away. Why are you even here? Didn't I tell you to back off?" She did all her best to stand up, and she did, pushing Sachiko away from her.

"Do not get touchy, woman." Yumi gritted lowly. "I don't need consolation, maybe years ago, but not now, and not ever. It was really hard to hate you, you know? I could not hate you when you dumped me, not even when you tried buying me out. But when you lied to me about your grandfather's illness, and married off to Ryu-san, that I could not forgive. Months and months of you seeing him under my nose, you kept the whole thing from me. I hated you. And I hate you still."

"I'm sorry."

"I know what you want," she said, still standing rigid. "You want me to forgive you. To move on, right? To move on. It's funny," she clenched her fists as she fought the urge to cry. "It's funny, how we tried to move on, from everything. I tried hard to forgive you. Still, when I see you, with him . . ." her voice faded.

Once more, Sachiko tried to embrace Yumi; the painter did not move.

"Me too."

Tears flowed freely now from Yumi's eyes, as she forced against the urge lift her ams and hug back. She clenched her hands—her ams were straining, almost in pain. The older woman embraced her tighter.

"I told you not to touch me." Yumi tried to be defiant, but it was spoken faintly.

"I'm sorry."

"This will not change anything." Yumi's voice was muffled by Sachiko's clothes. The painter stood stiffly still. She repeated, now with force. "This will _not_ change _anything_."

The painter lately realized that she was the one who opened the topic in the first place. She had dug her own demise.

* * *

Ryu tightened his hands onto the haori until his knuckles turned white. He should have not stayed outside the painter's door, listening to the confrontation. He should have delivered the thick clothing for Sachiko. He should have not worried.

It was not _enough_ for her.

* * *

It was not the first time Touma Ryu went to Lillian Academy for Girls. During his first year, he was curious of the Yamayurikai, the renowned Student Council of the sister school of Hanadera Academy for Boys. Her mother graduated there, just like the other women of the family. He had seen a photograph of her mother when she was eighteen, wearing the dark green sailor uniform, with his father—also eighteen—donned the ash gray Hanadera uniform. Their smiles were so geniune that even by just looking at the picture, Ryu's heart burst with joy. He wanted to meet her—someone like his mother—here, in what they called the "Garden of Maidens", as many a Hanadera student called girls from this school.

He was with the president of the Hanadera student council as an apprentice. He followed him as instructed, to learn the ways of the student council and its relationship with the Yamayurikai. He met the Rose Triumvirate, their boutons, and the boutons' petite souers. Being first year, he talked more comfortably with Rosa Chinensis en bouton petit souer, Mizuno Youko, who was eternally hospitable, and sometimes to her Foetida counterpart, the inscrutable Torii Eriko.

Memorizing their titles—all nine of them—it was not an easy endeavor. Kashiwagi-kun once told him that it was one of the reasons he did not attend the joint meeting was because he did not want to deal with them. He could, but he chose not to. Therefore, all diplomatic relations were assigned to Ryu. By the time he took over the presidency in his third year, dealing with the new Roses was never a problem.

During his second year, when they went for Lillian Academy for a joint meeting for the Hanadera Festival, he noticed the addition to the Yamayurikai, Hasekura Rei, who stood tall behind the current Rosa Foetida en bouton. This made him ask Mizuno-san if she already had her little sister and she admitted that she had; only that she was absent. Two Hanadera and a Lillian school festival went by, and still, he had not seen Mizuno-san's little sister. But he did not mind—it was as if the Hanadera council (and the Yamayurikai) would crumble if she did not attend any joint meeting.

On his third year, he found Ogasawara Sachiko, the Rosa Chinensis en bouton, in a practice meeting at the gymnasium for Lillian's school festival, dancing with a smaller pig-tailed girl into a waltz. Was the beautiful Ogasawara Sachiko really shy? He had been hearing it from other Yamayurikai members—the reason she refused to see outsiders. But then, as he was watching her at the entrance of the gymnasium, Mizuno-san finally spoke, "She's afraid of men."

Afraid? That was not what he saw. When she dismissed her partner away and headed to our direction, her dark eyes were determined and serious. She was not afraid of men, perse; she despised them. It was in the look in her eyes—the disgust, the mortification of someone of the opposite sex touching her. He braced himself, resolute to be different from what she expected of her.

Later, he asked his mother about the Ogasawara family privately, when she was in the library that night, returning a book that she had been reading three days since. She said, at first, that Ogasawara Sayako, the wife of the son of the patriarch, was a very kind person. When he asked about the daughter, his mother looked at him quizzically. He reasoned that he found out that Sachiko was "afraid" of men, and wanted to deal with it without insulting the girl.

His mother just told him: the Ogasawara men are known to have mistresses.

Then, everything made sense.

No, he would not be like that. As he found himself falling in love with her as time passed by, he vowed to pursue her. He would prove to her that he was different.

* * *

Yumi went to his office. It was after she left her workroom, brisky walking out with confused feelings.

She knocked on the door and opened it gently. "Yo."

He was on his cushioned seat at the back of his table, holding a paper as he looked at her. The room was only lit by a large study lamp at his side and another at the sofa set at the front. "I assume it went well?"

She closed the door but stood still on the way. "Depends on your perspective. I . . . I considered it futile; she considered it hopeful."

"Your eyes are red." He put down the paper he was holding.

Yumi smiled weakly. "I cried myself back there. Last time I cried was back at that stupid party."

"They say that tears are like rain. It cleanses the world where they fall. I think, the world cried with you at that time."

She grinned at the comment; her eyes skeptical. "That was philosophical, but I heard that before." Then she walked to the sofa set and lie down on the long couch. She looked at the ceiling as she admitted, "But you're right, the world cried with me that night. But that doesn't mean retribution or purification. It's just sympathy, Kashiwagi. I don't need that."

"If that's what you say."

"Can I stay here? What are you doing?"

"It's fine. Pick your favorite spot; I don't care. I'm just reading my letters."

She stayed, looking at the copy of _The Scream_ upon the wall. She closely narrowed her eyes to the hollow mouth of the subject "screaming" and to his empty eyes. Even though he appeared to be afraid, he appreared _blank_ to her. Just not that afraid, not even close. He just did, for the sake of being shocked.

She did not realize that she had slept on the couch; upon waking up, she was searching for the familiar alarm clock that should have been beside her. She tried to feel it with her extended hands but when she touched the low table, she realized then that she was still in Kashiwagi's office, covered with a large, warm blanket.

Kashiwagi was sleeping on a lone couch opposite her, his back slouched, his legs opened.

She should have sprang up and dashed away from the office, but she stayed there, still lying on the couch, sinking deeper into the blanket that she assumed Kashiwagi draped on her. Of course, it was Kashiwagi—he was the only one who knew that she's here. She closed her eyes again—the sun was not yet rising— with Kashiwagi as the last thing she saw.

* * *

The man wearing a fedora hat sipped his coffee as he dialled numbers on his cellular phone and placed it near its ears.

"Yes, it's me, President . . . just as you predicted: your granddaughter seemed to have reconciled with Fukuzawa . . . yes, I will . . . yes."

After the conversation, he put his phone in his pockets.

* * *

Yumi was still not used to Touma Ryu's optimistic, cheerful disposition even with three nights of drowning to it while dinner. They were to leave the city, and Kashiwagi would deliver them to the station. She just stood there, just to say her customary goodbye. Then, she'd be back to her workroom and resume her work.

Sachiko was showing the result of that night's encounter. Hope, indeed was in her eyes. Yumi tried hardest not to look—seemingly comparing Sachiko to the snake-haired Medusa, fearing to turn into stone. But how ironic it was; whenever they meet, they would always be alone, without another party in watch, and there, they would break each other's hearts again. Either by their words or presence. Then came that night. She looked slightly at Sachiko, her face serene but Yumi could detect optimism. She failed to cringe; not because she would embarrass herself and her employer for being rude to the departing guests, but because . . . she felt no inclination to do it . . . she was not sure.

Yet, seeing Ryu like that, she felt a little sympathetic for him. How shiny he was. He would not be as welcoming if he knew that she was Sachiko's former lover. Knowing that would be quite disconcerting, even for a man. She wondered what kept him like that . . . but after all, it was quite a fact: everybody loves Sachiko. To the point that you forget yourself, the world, the cruel reality of everything else. All you see is Sachiko, and her serene, rare smile.

Just like Yumi used to do.

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

*Carpal tunnel syndrome – n. pain and weakness of hand: a condition of pain and weakness in the hand caused by repetitive compression of a nerve that passes through the wrist into the hand.

This is unbeta-ed. Also, can anyone tell me the [canon] name of Sachiko's grandfather?

**A/N: **_Please_ _review. Please? I beg you._


	14. Chapter 14

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_He did know how he was able to make her agree with his proposal. For the months of being engaged to her, he tried his best to make her feel more comfortable with him. In his silent observations, one by one, he found things. Good things—well, at least he found things that she found likable—proper decorum, the classics, piano, flower arrangement, tea ceremony, paintings. Things that a proper lady should like. She did not seem like the outside just as he did, but in subtle persistence, he was able to take her out sometimes. _

_But for all that he had been doing, she was not herself. Her mind was somewhere else; her looks were very distant and foreign, as if she were looking for a needle beyond the horizon of tall grasses. He loved that look on her, the unreachable beauty, but that too, caused him pain. She would silently smile once when they took a walk on the rose garden of the Touma estate, gazing lovingly at the delicate red rosebud among the blooms of the mature ones. She would nestle it on her fingers, caressing it lightly with the pad of her thumb. She was lost in that, that she did not notice him intently watching her. He was an outsider. _

_He always assumed that it was because of her role as the Rosa Chinensis back at Lillian Academy, her close sisterhood with Mizuno Youko brought her fond memories. He always assumed that, because she never mentioned her little sister. He heard she had one. He did not ponder over it, neither asked. If there was something that he was able to do, it was to be as cheerful as he was. She mentioned once that he was very energetic but was not surprised by such attitude. He asked her if that made her uncomfortable, and she just endowed him with a small nod and a weak, pained smile. It was as if she met someone like him who she lost in the past. He asked her if she had a boyfriend before, but she said none, her eyes boring to him with insistence that she was telling the truth._

"_I have never loved a man before," she said lethargically, her eyes without life. She was not yearning for it, it seemed._

"_I hope that will change soon!" He optimistically said to her, grinning widely. But deep inside him wished that with all his heart that the man would be him._

_- Touma Ryu (1993)_

* * *

CHAPTER 14:

* * *

The first time Ryu came into the Ogasawara mansion was when he was twenty-two years of age, a university student months away from graduation. He was with his parents, and the three of them were given an invitation from the family patriarch for a dinner. His parents knew the older Ogasawara members well; the second-generation heirs of both families had been business rivals. His parents were serene and calm on their seats at the family's limousine, not talking to each other but hands linked. Somehow, the dread that he had been feeling for the longest time was silently disappearing upon looking at his parents. He did not notice that he was gawking at them until his mother offered him a subtle smile. With that, he shook his head and looked away to the window, to watch the fading surroundings as the car sped by.

He smiled to himself. He wanted his future to be like that.

This was the first time that he would be attending an omiai.

He'd be meeting Ogasawara Kyouichii, the current patriarch—one of many of their encounters.

They met at a gala hosted by another family two weeks ago. Ryu was always the chaperone for his mother (apart from his father) in social events, and was always beside her, as she required much assistance because of her poor health. It was the call of tradition—she wanted to be present as required of a wife of a Touma, and even though Ryu's father had strongly opposed to it, she did not want to embarrass the family by being absent. Ever since they realized that she could not handle long and frequent parties, Ryu had early exposure to the workings of the social circle where they belong to compensate for her. And it happened that in a party, where all of Ogasawara members were present.

Including Ogasawara Kyouichii, whose presence was rare in any social gathering, that his attendance would mark high honor to the hosts. His presence broke a sea of people into half; his return nod to those that greeted him was an indication that he had their high esteem, and the air of disregard to others was a warning. That's why when Ogasawara Kyouichii acknowledged the older Touma, the younger one had a share of that recognition. Ryu felt his father's strong and guarded stance when the patriarch began talking to him and (more so) when both of them looked at Ryu. Kyouichii's steel eyes were very much penetrating, almost invading to a person's soul. Young Ryu looked back at his father, who warned his son that this elderly man should not be trifled with. Ryu bowed to Kyouichii, minding his stance, his manners—everything—so that he would not be embarrassing his esteemed parents. Indeed, the Ogasawara patriarch gave him a bow, and suggested that Ryu should have Kyouichii's granddaughter the next dance.

Ogasawara Sachiko was behind her father. Her face was blank and serene that Ryu was almost afraid of her. Why does a woman with a very angelic face wore an expression absent of life? He remembered the last time he saw her years ago, back when he was still a high school student, and her livid stare the first time they met during a practice for a play of the Lillian Seitokai. When Ogasawara Sachiko stepped before him as instructed by his grandfather, she just gave her a perfect bow, but her eyes seemingly unfocused, as if her soul sucked away from her lithe body. They danced to the music of the orchestra, but she never spoke nor replied to any of Ryu's icebreakers. He asked her if she were ill, but she dismissed it with a languid flail of fingers and a silent, "No, it's nothing. Please, do not bother yourself with me."

Until then, he should have not forgotten about her all along. He should have not cowered years ago and pursued her as he planned before. Ogasawara Sachiko was more than the princess-like demeanor or her death glare. Where were those challenging eyes that he saw years ago? Stupid as it was, he felt the need to rescue her, to learn more than what meets the eye.

Touma Ryu fell in love with her again in that dance.

He noticed that he'd always asked her for a dance every time they see each other.

Now, he was visiting the Ogasawara Mansion. His parents had been reluctant to tell Ryu about Ogasawara's interest over their son, but Ryu was honest enough with his feelings. There was no need to hide his interest.

His vision was clear: he would court Ogasawara Sachiko.

It was an omiai, under the pretense of a dinner between the two families. Ryu was still as nervous as a deer caught in the headlights even though he had imagined this scenario in various circumstances . . . maybe because of Kyouichii-sama's presence. He had imagined the horrifying and even the hilarious ways of embarrassing himself, but in those contemplations, he could never imagine Ogasawara Sachiko smiling. Never.

Maybe because he never seen her like that then—happy. She always had a straight, unreadable face. He could have watched her face forever, bit by bit rendering every movement of her lips to form an expression, but limited conditions never allowed him to do so. Even with their elders' competitiveness in business, Ryu never did meet her. Even though they have similar social circles. Even though her school was in the same hill as his.

She was wearing a formal kimono, quiet as ever, impassive to table discussions. Yet all he needed to hear was her voice, her opinion for the topic in chat; all he needed to see was a change in her withdrawn eyes.

He could not even take a good look at her because he took most of the time responding to the Ogasawara men's interrogation. They were obviously sizing him up.

In a whim, he stopped everyone with what they were doing (talking and eating?) when he asked for a moment for the restroom. The first person who noticed was Kyouichii-sama, ever imposing with his cold dark eyes. Ryu braved himself, "I'm most sorry, Ogasawara-sama, but I think I need to excuse myself."

For the first time, his parents looked at him with disbelief in their eyes. (Are you _actually _blowing up this omiai now?)

"Is the cuisine not to your taste, Touma Ryu-san?" Ogasawara Kyouichii icily asked.

"No, not at all. I just think that I need to excuse myself for a while, to refresh myself, sir." Ryu looked at Sachiko and it was almost a hallucination for him when he noticed a slight twitch of brows and narrowing of eyes from Ogasawara Sachiko. He was being rude right now—yet he took his chances. He just could not be stuck in this Japanese dinner without talking to Sachiko.

(What was her role here—just a decoration? No, that's not right.)

"I am very nervous, sir, and I don't think it would be wise to endure it when everyone here noticed."

(It was a very stupid move.)

Ryu could have sworn his father was mentally slashing him with a blunt end of a bamboo stick. But still, he stayed put and looked at Kyouichii-sama without slipping into a flinch. Then, within a beat, Kyouichii-sama asked his granddaughter to stop eating and show him the way to the restroom. Sachiko-sama agreed and ended it with a short bow and a polite farewell. By the time they were rooms away from the dining hall, Ryu said, "Is it always stuffed in here?"

"Whatever are you talking about, Touma-san?" Sachiko flagrantly replied.

"I can't feel the air there. Can you, Sachiko-sama?" Ryu stopped walking.

"No."

"Is there a nice view of the garden here? Err . . . where can we get fresh air?" He jokingly asked.

"The next hall leads to the Japanese styled rooms. You will find the view of the garden there. And good amount of fresh air." She politely supplied, negating Ryu's cheery questions.

"Let's stay there for a few minutes. I can't have you stuffed in that room." Ryu said. "Could you show me the way?"

Sachiko motioned for the next hallway. He walked side by side with her as her feet took little steps, restricted by her kimono. He could have watched her face forever, for a sign of a change, but it seemed a hard endeavor—impenetrable as she was. But he had plenty of time.

By the time he looked once more to her face, he saw sadness. He felt her urge of walking away. She did not look like she was afraid of him (he thought that it was the other way around), but still, what could he have done that made her so distant from him? Was it still about her dislike of men as Mizuno Youko-san supplied long ago?

Ryu decided that it was best to let his intentions known, "I know you don't like this arrangement and all—"

"Here is the garden, Touma-san." Sachiko said as she pivoted to the left, which revealed the hallway of the Japanese styled rooms on the left side, and the garden at the other.

All that time, Ryu only studied her face. He had hoped he could see her smile. A real smile. No ice would forever stay solid. Somehow, there is a way for it to thaw—a circumstance, a person, a thing. He intended to find how.

"You're not comfortable there, right?" When he received no reaction from the kimono-clad woman, he added, "I'm sorry for being so forward."

Sachiko looked at him and only replied. "You don't have to apologize."

* * *

Present day

"Who's this?" The painter finally answered her cellphone after its fifth ring, irritated by the sudden disruption at exactly seven in the evening. She regretted that she charged the phone just this morning, just as she was preparing herself for the day. For her, the use of cellphones seemed to be so foreign for her—she doesn't even want it in her person, unlike most people. Yes, it was the most convenient medium of communication there was in Japan, but having one really bothered her. It was as if she could never be alone, by herself. Every time the phone rang, there was always a tiny sound of snapping in her brain that she could not get rid of.

She thought of Sei as she grumpily sighed as she looked for her ringing phone among the mess of her workroom. The cellphone that she had now was given by Sei after the celebration of the success of her second major exhibition years ago. In her heart she wanted to decline—to just gave it back to Sei—but Sei insisted that she should have it. "I already put my number there. It's up to you to add contacts."

She smirked at the memory. Yumi was already used to Sei's innuendos about the painter's personal life, and somehow, they understood that nothing might change. Yumi thought that it was Sei's way of censuring her, and she had no problem with that. Sei was the only sempai from Lillian that had been there for her; there was nothing Yumi would be ungrateful for. In the midst of thinking that the caller could be Sei, she located her phone in the piles of sketches that she made, she found her phone.

The number was unregistered.

She answered it with a polite "hello" but it was a beat after she heard the caller's voice.

/ Yumi, it's me. /

She knew that voice, and it was so automatic that her heart constricted tightly that she could not breathe. When she did, she wished silently that she should have hung the phone.

"How did you get this number?" She asked weakly, silently wishing to punch whoever gave Ogasawara Sachiko her number. She was thinking of Sei and Touko, but she concluded considerately that _they_ wouldn't do that.

They would not betray her like that.

/ I got it from Yoshino-san. /

(Yoshino! That was unexpected.)

"That was expected. I suppose you must have a good reason for your call. Yoshino would not give my number to _you_ that easily." She lied.

/ I suppose. /

Sachiko answered. Yumi bit her lip; with the tone of Sachiko's voice, she detected the lie. Yumi's brows were meeting in irritation; even though they both had gone separate ways, Sachiko still knew her. Yumi hated it.

"What did you say to her?"

/ I . . . I said that I wanted to speak to you. /

"If that were the case, I should have hung the phone a while ago."

/ Yes. But the truth is . . . it's better to talk like this . . . away from each other. I thought . . . I thought that it would be much more to your convenience. /

Yumi stood up and went outside her workroom. It was as if the open air outside could ease a little of her distress while she struggled not to respond. She was irking to throw away the phone, but for some reason she couldn't do it.

She was afraid that she knew the answer to her problem, but all she thought about after Ogasawara Sachiko left the Kinomoto compound was her lost painting. It was the remembrance of what happened in the past, to signify what she had become. Yet, as time passed by, her anxiety about her lost painting were diminishing little by little. She was afraid that the possibility, that in the future, she would no longer mind that she'd lost it. And that she could return again to who she was before.

She did not want that. Yet . . .

"You still haven't given up."

/ No, I haven't. / Sachiko's reply was firm.

She was seething while she spoke, "You never change, Sachiko. You don't falter when you have a goal."

/ No, I don't. /

"I've seen you giving up all hopes. Somehow, I don't believe anything the you said. The truth behind what you have done before . . . I don't need it anymore, Sachiko. The past was . . . it was long gone. Telling me the truth won't change it. Your chances were long exhausted. Even when you visited me, I did not give you a chance to explain yourself. What I know was enough.

/ What do you know? /

Yumi did not expect the sudden jolt of nervousness upon Sachiko's voice. "What you told me. He was chosen by your grandfather. You agreed to it. Whether or not your decision went against your wishes, I don't know. Still, you agreed to it."

She said feeling disappointed of herself. She could have said nothing, yet, why was she still pondering about the past? She hated it, yet she kept on talking about it. She knew that her intention was more than just blaming Sachiko, but of something else. Something else that she would not dare to name. The realization would mark her coward.

/ But it was more than that. /

"I know."

/ Do you think, if you have done that sooner . . . or maybe years ago, your apologies will reach me? /

/ I don't know. /

"You think pain could be weakened by time."

/ No—no . . . yes. /

"Yes, it did. It did, for a while."

/ I'm sorry. /

"We've been here before. Stop saying you're sorry. It doesn't matter. Even if you came back, nothing will change. Sachiko, you know I don't play hard-to-get."

/ . . . / A beat passed but it seemed Yumi got what she wanted—a floored Sachiko.

"I _am_ talking to you. Isn't that a miracle enough?" The painter said, cockily. They're discussed the same conversation many times. She was getting tired of explaining herself.

(But then, why the hell did she bother to do so?)

Yumi was reminded of Icarus soaring close to the Sun.

* * *

Sachiko could not ask her. Jealousy was feeding her thoughts and she could not find a way to vent it out—neither to keep it to herself. She could not just confront her, even though they were separated and protected by space. She stared at the vast gardens of the Touma mansion through the tall windows.

"Who was on the phone?" Ryu asked—he just appeared out of nowhere.

She did not turn around, afraid that her face would betray her—even with her expertise. She couldn't, not when Yumi was involved. She inhaled enough to wake her brain and replied coolly, "Just a friend."

"I see." A trace of disappointment in his reply.

Ryu walked out of the room, without bidding his leave. As he walked away, Sachiko heard the constant, uniformed, and crisp taps of Ryu's soles against the floorboards of the hallway. Too uniformed.

* * *

It was already midnight.

Kashiwagi was not there for the night. Yumi had not smelled the aroma of tea from the outside, neither the silent taps of footprints upon the floorboards. But she felt the faint smell of tea served yester night. For her it was quite unusual, for she already treated his presence like an alarm clock. She could not describe it in any way—that was how she saw it—something that she could not leave behind. With his absence came her dread of being alone with her thoughts. It was either that damn Sachiko or her missing painting. Somehow, restoring Kinomoto paintings was already taxing and tiresome that she did not even notice being asleep in the middle of her room's mess, dreaming of ex-acto knives and her missing painting and Sachiko and Suguru.

She stared at her suspended hands (occupied with a palette and a brush) and never noticed that she stopped working for almost five minutes. She put them down and settled them on her lap, and she looked outside. Still not here.

She often wondered how he handled his business; she was immensely surprised of how lax his schedule was. Out of curiosity, she was baffled of how he managed his time wisely, and envied him.

(He was many things—things that she could not even comprehend.)

As she tried to focus of the Hinata that she was restoring, her mind shifted to the kiss Suguru and she had shared. It just dawned to her, just now—at the moment when Suguru was not seated at his spot for the night. She was not affected by it, not by a great deal—but she argued to herself that she was not herself when that happened. She knew that she was silently over-analyzing and over-reading her emotions now about the matter—but it troubled her. If she were herself, she would have not entertained such sudden familiarity from Kashiwagi firsthand. Even though she could be cynically flirtatious, she would never go beyond her station as his employee by accepting the gesture. She would retaliate, would flinch defensively, flashing a warning that she had the balls to consider it sexual harassment.

The truth sunk in—she was already considering him a replacement emotional soundboard, a role that Sei usually was responsible for. He knew that she had issues and was never afraid to slam it to her face, just like Sei. And for some sort of reason, she didn't mind.

Yet Sei was all a good friend. They almost had it—Yumi had tried to seduce her once, when she was hurdling in despair over Sachiko's betrayal—but Sei would not want of it. That time Yumi thought that she had found Sei to be such a keeper—she never fucks friends. Sexual innuendos here and there, but they never get anywhere, not even when Yumi had the mood to consider herself that she could.

Suguru was a different matter. Maybe because he's a man and being the opposite of her species marked him as foreign and a little bothersome. Men—she heard and experienced—were animals—with a very opposing view with Yuuki, she must add. Very interesting creatures, but animals still. About women: they were the submissive half of the species, but they could be sly creatures, using their charms—subtle or otherwise—to ensnare men and women alike. She had tasted both worlds and it was expected to learn things, even horrible ones about her own sex.

She thought of Sachiko.

She dismissed her from her thoughts.

"Tea?"

That jerked her out of her reverie; she did not notice that Suguru was already in his spot, already sipping his tea. He was wearing black slacks and a white shirt underneath a black blazer. His silver necktie was still in its impeccable place. She stood from her stool to retrieve his offered tea.

(Now, about that little diversion they had last time—)

"Do _not_ bring it up."

Surprisingly, both of them growled that, and stared at each other with appalling scowls on their faces. In silent agreement, both of them would never breach the subject ever again.

"She called me."

"Who?"

"Sachiko."

"Is she the reason you're out of sorts?" He questioned.

"Is there a person who you could never forgive?"

He stiffened. She noticed that his eyes were staring heavily and darkly at the gardens, seemingly weighing his options whether to disclose the answer. Then he said, "There is one."

"Me too . . . there's one . . . there's one," she said in a sing-song voice—a bleak staccato. Then, she changed the subject. "Your friend, Ryu-san, is a very nice guy. I don't think he could hurt a fly."

He turned to her, gone was his sinister expression. "Is that how you see him?"

She sipped her tea. "Yeah. I wonder how he'd cope if something bad . . . really fucked-up bad happened to him." In her head, she imagined Sachiko leaving him. It was not a very foreign idea. It was so vivid she could almost pity the guy.

_Like I said, is three years not enough for you?_

Yumi shuddered at the memory of her own rejection.

"Cheerful, naïve types are like elastic bands." He said looking at her, his face relaxed, as if he knew what she was like in the past. In her mind, she blanched.

(Soundboard, huh?)

Outside, she smirked smugly, "I quite agree."

* * *

_Several hours later_

Murata Keichii had been hurting his bottom for the last four hours since he sat on his spot near the west wall of the Kinomoto compound where he could see Fukuzawa Yumi under surveillance. It was his job for the president for the last weeks ever since the painter went back from Musashino weeks ago. He adjusted the rim of his already worn-out fedora hat—his lucky charm—so that he could see the compound below. He was on the upper outskirts of the neighborhood.

Quickly, he pulled two magnums from the holster of his belt, twisted behind and stood up with his legs spread. His arms were straight, pointing the guns to two men wearing black suits, who were also probing their guns to his skull.

Then, he heard a click at the back—another was pointing to the back of his head. Three against one. He's in deep shit.

"Murata, you never learn."

"Shimata, nice to see you." He greeted to the man behind him. "You were working with Kinomoto before, and now, with Kashiwagi? You really can't stay away from the compound, can you?" Keichii goaded, but the bead of sweat on his forehead betrayed him.

"And you are working with Ogasawara. Turns out you're still in the lower of ranks, an errant dog personally spying my master." Shimata spitted, not an ounce amused. "Kashiwagi Suguru would like to talk to you, if you don't mind."

Keichii's three adversaries were still pointing their guns to his head, barely moving. He pivoted backward, aimed to have one of his guns pointing to Shimata, but the latter read his moves and swiftly stepped to reposition himself at Keichii's back.

Shimata said, a little annoyed. "Surrender your guns and just meet Kashiwagi-sama. You are at a disadvantage, Murata-san, and if you don't do what you're told, you might as well have a bullet or two in your brain. It would be a very strenuous task—to dispose your corpse, so please spare me the worst."

"Then why don't you just kill me?"

"You're too shrewd for that."

The two men in black suits raised their empty hands. Keichii lowered his arms and surrendered his two magnums.

He was lead to Kashiwagi's study, a room very different from the rest. He noticed both western and eastern paintings on the walls—_The Scream_ looming at him like an idiot. He felt more pathetic as he stared at the art piece. The two men in black suits pushed him to a long couch, put both his magnums on the middle table, and walked out of the room, while Shimata motioned to a corner near Kashiwagi, who was sipping tea from a porcelain teacup. Shimata just stood stiffly at the background.

His guns were haphazardly resting at the table in front of him. What the hell was this game?

"Would you like tea, Murata Keichii-san?" Kashiwagi asked hospitably. Murata couldn't read him at all. He then decided to play his game.

"Yes."

"Shimata-san." Kashiwagi ordered. "Of course, Sir." Shimata suddenly produced a cup of tea and placed it between the guns. He did not mind to get the firearms away from the table. Then he resumed to his position in the room.

"I'm sorry my men were rough on you today. All I want is just to talk. And run errands for me. Were they rough on you, Murata-san?" Kashiwagi asked distantly.

Murata could not produce a proper reply. He tried not to stare at his guns. Then, he got an idea. "What do you want with me?" He looked at Kashiwagi in challenge.

"I want you to tell me what you were feeding to the old Ogasawara."

A beat passed. Before he could take hold of one of the guns at the table, a swish of air and an ear-shattering ping dashed to the gun he was about to grab. His magnum flew away. That stopped him moving—he could not decide the proper course of action, whether to take cover at the sofa or to stop moving. He's fucked.

"A little early, Master Kashiwagi." Shimata said nonchalantly.

"You think so, Shimata? You should give me a break—I took it from my belt at the back, having a Clint Eastwood reference here." Kashiwagi replied to his butler.

"The swing of the arm was perfect, sir, but the aim was off. You were aiming for Murata's head, weren't you?"

Murata's sweat rolled down his sideburns. That was not a fucking miss. Kashiwagi's arm was steady, unfazed—his aim was really on the gun. He was thankful enough it was not his head.

"Quite right. Having two guns in front of him takes me at a disadvantage. To think you were holding a tea set there." Kashiwagi replied to Shimata, as if Murata was not in the room.

And Shimata was.

"Now, Murata-san. Why did Ogasawara send you here? Was it because of Fukuzawa Yumi?"

Where was his fedora hat now?

"Yes, I'm tailing Fukuzawa Yumi."

Kashiwagi Suguru, the current master of the house, narrowed his eyes at Murata. "I thought so. I just want you to send this to your employer," Kashiwagi produced a green envelope to Shimata. Shimata settled the tea set to a table, and handed it to Murata. On it was a seal—_Kinomoto_.

"I want to meet him."

* * *

Yoshino was bored; no, rather, Yoshino despised inactivity. This probably stemmed out from her inability to be more proactive back when she still had her cardiac disease, but now, liberated from all that restrained her as a weakling, was now hungry for more of what life has to offer. It was fairly surprising that she had this job in the first place—she aimed to be a detective, just like how she read detective and samurai stories back in her younger days. She became and insurance agent when a client of hers commissioned her for a job years back. Since then, it was her side-job. It grew out on her.

Before, commissions were continuous, eventful, dramatic. For every piece of painting, there was mystery behind the owner, and everyone that surrounded him. It was different with the recent case. The painter and the owner were the same. Now, this would go with all that could be related to this ascetic painter—everyone in the past and the present would be included in the search. She did not sell the painting in the first place. She was among the new artist, and due to her recent works, she had garnered a little place among the contemporary masters. Very _little, _she emphasized.

Now, about inactivity: it seemed that something happened there at the Kashiwagi's place. Rei was particularly happy about it, that when Yoshino asked (indirectly and discreetly) what Sachiko might have told her during the best friends' afternoon teas, Rei gave a little glowing smile. Sachiko always had a special place to her heart, a place that Yoshino could peek but unable to barely enter. All she said that Sachiko was optimistic. That was a little bold declaration from the one that left Yumi in the dust years ago—so, in all cases, something must have happened. A reconciliation, maybe? Or closer to that?

A reconciliation. That would be a big leap. That would change something in the course of Yumi's human relationships. Reconciliation would open up doors that were sealed after they became enemies. These doors would open the reasons that they separated in the first place.

Reasons . . . what are they? Yoshino knew that their breakup had something to do with Sachiko's engagement to Touma Ryu, who she could assume as a forced advertisement by the patriarch of the Ogasawara family. Probably, her grandfather knew about Yumi and Sachiko's affair. If so, then, once this reconciliation reached him, what would he do? Would he be secured by Ryu and Sachiko's marriage binding, or would he be alarmed that a subliminal event had been happening without his grasp or understanding? Yoshino assumed that he doesn't like being out of control. He was a very organized Seitokai president, Yuuki-san commented once.

On the other hand, she supposed that Touma Ryu knew nothing of the whole affair. Even though he was easy-going, he would not allow his wife near the painter if he did. Yumi and Sachiko might have pretended that nothing was wrong; however, they would act as if they were long past the sisterhood magic that they shared long ago, which people so assumed about proverbial sisters from Lillian Academy. Ryu knew nothing of Yumi except that she used to be Sachiko's little sister and one of his favorite painters, according to Yuuki. Now, about reconciliation—he knew nothing of that. Sachiko would not even mention it, because, in the first place, he did not know that there was a quarrel. It would not make sense. So, what if he discovered something? If there were a reconciliation back at Kashiwagi's place, then, somehow, he would feel change. He would be curious. Somehow, he would discover something.

Those secrets are meant to be exposed.

(But that was a long shot.)

Yoshino sighed. Yumi could be secretive, more so in the case of Sachiko.

(Move, people, move!)

Sachiko threw the pebble to the lake; it's time for others to react to that as well.

Yoshino was bored, until Yuuki, who was sitting behind his desk, received a call.

* * *

"Sei?"

Yumi's visitor glomped her.

"Whoah . . . okay, okay, stop—dammit, Sei. Okay, okay." Yumi's first reaction was to avoid Sei's fierce embrace, but for an unforeseen reason, she stayed in her position and let her senior indulge. Indeed, something was wrong. Sei's grip was stronger than Yumi had anticipated, and her head was buried to her hair. "Sei, I might dirty you with the pigments. I'm still in my apron."

They were at the doorway of Yumi's workroom.

She still did not budge. "Sei, something wrong?" The painter suddenly asked.

"I was going to ask you that." Sei's hold became tighter.

"Why's that?"

Sei spoke muffled by Yumi's hair. "Last week. You never told me. I was worried."

They settled on the floor of Yumi's workroom, admiring the unfinished second Hinata painting. Yumi's head rested on Sei's lap while Sei played with the painter's chestnut locks.

"You didn't have to go here just to check on me. I was able to handle Sachiko perfectly. You don't have to worry too much." Yumi said softly; suddenly a little sympathetic. It had been too long ever since they talk like this. "I'm a big girl."

"Where's the cocky Yumi and what have you done with her?"

"You are ruining a very rare mood, Sei."

Sei suddenly bent down, planted her forehead to Yumi's own, and closed her eyes. Yumi was yet again surprised at the gesture—Sei was never this touchy. She seldom revealed her vulnerabilities with abandon as she did now. Yumi closed her eyes too. She could feel Sei's heat through the small contact of their foreheads.

But Yumi still could not read her thoughts. Sei said nothing. What's going on?

* * *

Touma Ryu was suddenly outside the office of his grandfather-in-law. He turned the knob of the double doors leading to the huge room, only to be greeted by Ogasawara Kyouichii's knowing stare. _Pathetic_—that was all he read through the lens of the Ogasawara patriarch. Ryu's defeat was defined with his presence in the president's office.

Even with his dismal feelings, Ryu stood erectly and faced Kyouichii.

The patriarch drawled, "You pathetic fool. Now you understand that I never tell lies."

Ryu's eyes were suddenly inhuman, void of moisture. "Yes, I clearly know what I heard."

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

A/N: AUTHOR HAD A TERRIBLE CASE OF WRITER'S BLOCK. And she hate it so damn much. Sorry for the delay. She hopes this chapter is satisfying—it felt so lacking. She blames it to herself, and the damn block. Author needs comments about Ryu. Very badly—hoping that she was imparting the right perspective of him.

About the OCs: I can't help but set a little piece of personality in them. I really like butler types.


	15. Chapter 15

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

__, 1971_

_Dearest,_

_Spring is here, as I write to you._

_I would be very fortunate if my words would reach you in the future. You must fought the impulse of destroying every memory of me, good or bad, but it does not matter, as long as you could read this one. You might think that I am giving you a hard time by bringing up what could have been, but I would be very brief, unlike my earlier letters, since this would be my last correspondence to you. If ever you would reply, I would not be able to respond, like I used to. I was very eager, was I not?_

_At last, I wrote this to say goodbye. I thought I died when you left and came back to Tokyo for good, but then, I discovered that I did not. You were insistent on going back to your family. At first, I did not understand how you disappeared without reflecting on your promises, not only to me, but to yourself. You told me more than once that you have a vision for us two, to be together heart and soul. I believed you with all my heart, because I know you well. I worked hard believing your words. I saw a future with us together, and I used to hope in its weakest chance that you would return. I know you will not, and I accept it now. _

_Do not worry about me. Being without you has been normal now. I handle myself well, and I believe that I can live without you, even though my heart died when you left. I believe I can replace what has been gone, and fill my heart anew. I know it._

_I hope you are happy. I always wish happiness, every single day, for you._

_I still love you. I will always love you. Remember that you will always have a part in me, that you exist in me, even if we will not cross paths in the future. There will always be hope, even if we are alone. I hope so._

_Yours,_

_Setsuna_

* * *

CHAPTER 15

* * *

Yumi woke abruptly, the sweat in her forehead and back were dripping coldly. It would have been nice if she could just have a decent sleep without any nightmares haunting her. She looked for her alarm clock; not finding it made her realize that she fell asleep in the middle of her messy workroom. A haori was draped on her body.

Sei was beside her, sleeping and sharing the same haori with her. She was peacefully asleep, and Yumi was glad that she was. Yumi noticed the dark circles around Sei's eyes, and judging that from the sudden change of smooth slopes of cheeks into sharp ones, Sei had not been sleeping for days. Or eating.

"What's wrong, Sei?" Yumi whispered as she settled two fingers upon her senior's cheek and slid them a little downward.

Yumi knew Sei was already awake. Sei opened her eyes to stare at her. "Do you remember when you asked me how I got over Shiori? You asked me ages ago, after your second exhibition." She was answered with a slight nod from the painter. She continued, "What have you done ever since Sachiko came back to your life?"

Yumi did not answer back. Instead, she asked, "What makes you so bitchy about her? I understand what you feel because of me but . . . back then, you were very considerate and perceptive of everyone's situations. Instead of taking anyone's side, you reprimand me to be more open to things. Now, I am surprised. I don't know why, but suddenly, you're so foreign."

"I don't understand."

Yumi interrupted. "I don't fucking understand, either. It's been a long time since I've re-evaluated my life. Dreams and nightmares coming and going, as well as people I don't want to see anymore. Ever since you came back, and after she left me, you made me feel satisfied with myself, even of what I've become. You took me all in. Touko, too, eventually. What makes you do that?"

"We're the same, Yumi. I see myself in you." Sei smiled bleakly. "To be honest, I let you become what you are because . . . I want you to become like me. I want someone to share and know what I feel. The loss . . ." She shifted to hide her face from Yumi. "Somehow, I envy you. Even the bitch you've become. Have I told you that before?"

Yumi narrowed her eyes. She knew not where the conversation was heading. "I chose to be like this, Sei. But now, I am getting weaker and weaker. I can feel it. I am already happy of what I chose to become. I am already satisfied . . ."

Sei faced her again, this time she forced the painter to look at her directly. "I let it happen, Yumi. I should have saved you."

"Is this about before? The old things that I used to be? I don't need that shit from you. You," Yumi breathed, suddenly nauseated by Sei little inconsistencies. She could not understand why Sei was beginning to act as more than the convenient Onee-san that she was. The painter was not liking this suddenly emotionally attached Sei here in the confines of her workroom. Just when the day would start. She was thinking that they shared the same sentiments—Sei helped Yumi . . . she was her savior; not in ways that would bring back the innocence she lost when Sachiko left her, but a coping person after a disappointing event, which was always better than the first. Now she was hearing this bullshit.

"I don't regret anything. I thought we're in the same boat. This is not the time to have conscience for Sachiko, or for everyone else that hurt me before. Or to regret because of whatever is happening now. You have no responsibility on me." Yumi said faintly.

Sei's eyes blinked. Yumi immediately regretted what she had said, but decided not to take it back. Whatever was done, it was to protect her. It was to know Sei's reasons for behaving so unconventional. Sei was already acting weird ever since that party. What the hell was eating her?

"You are not this, not like this. What are you doing, Sei? Is there something you wanted to tell me?"

Sei looked away and did not answer.

Yumi sighed. "In the end, we didn't answer our questions to each other. Every discussion seems to be pointless. Nothing is resolved."

They were silent for a while.

Sei changed the subject. "What's next in your Kinomoto restorations?"

Yumi, who quickly recovered, replied as she looked at the canvas resting upon the stand, "This one is Setsuna's."

Yumi looked at the third Kinomoto painting displayed proudly on the stand. Today, she was going to start restoring a painting of the third generation Kinomoto painter—Hinata's daughter.

Unlike her predecessors, her paintings were bright, hopeful. Her mother,Hinata, had her paintings bleak, dark, full of arid colors—a result of her experiences during the second great war. In Setsuna's work, Yumi saw herself years ago—when she was still in university, savoring the intellectual and creative freedom with her brushes. Hopeful—that was the appropriate term—for the future.

She felt pathetic while she looked at it. She could not fathom why.

* * *

Few days ago

"This is a charming house." Ryu said to his old friend, Kashiwagi Suguru, as they walked through hallways of the Kinomoto compound. Kashiwagi opened the door of his study for Ryu and joined him inside. Kashiwagi did not bother to reply.

"You probably know why I came here in Kyoto." Ryu started as he sat on a single couch while Kashiwagi took the opportunity to get his hands on the liquor cabinet.

"Business." Kashiwagi replied.

"No, thanks." Ryu was refering to Kashiwagi's offer for a drink. When Kashiwagi took his seat in front of Ryu, the latter continued: "I'll keep this simple: stay away from us. What makes you think that your plans in messing up with the Ogasawara Zaibatsu will continue in without me noticing? Do not make me laugh, Suguru. If you want a fight, do it fairly. Yours against mine."

"The company that you serve was just picking up after you gained your position there. The old man used to have it bad but still, you stupidly took the responsibility. You are smarter than that. All for the sake of the girl. Trying to be the hero?" Kashiwagi replied. There was no amusement or trace of playful banter in his voice.

Ryu ignored him. "We are moving forward. It is not very wise taking over a company such as ours, even with our situation. What you are doing is beyond logic." Ryu sensed the sharp twitch of Kashiwagi's eyes as he talked. He confronted Suguru, because he knew he had the chance to win. He knew things. "Who are you after, Kashiwagi?"

Kashiwagi said nothing, seemingly just observing Ryu. The latter was beginning to be amused with Kashiwagi's silent treatments. Ryu continued, "This is not a game for you, is it? Up to this point, I am doing all I can in this company for Sachiko. I want it to be nice and ready with all its glory when she'll takeover. There's so much to do—answer to an incompetent board, replace them if I would, pay debts, increase revenues . . . but you're the one getting in the way.

"Again: tell me, who are you after, Kashiwagi?" Ryu demanded. When Kashiwagi was unable to form an answer, he continued, "I can give it to you, so as you would not to bother with my business."

Kashiwagi ignored him. "Have I ever told you before that I was adopted?"

Ryu had forgotten how distant Kashiwagi was whenever he talked about his origins. Suguru told him in a whim after a gang fight during middle school, and now, Ryu never expected that Suguru would be so relaxed reminiscing the past. Stunned, he replied rather reflexively, "Yes."

Suguru smirked. "Who I'm after, you ask?" Ryu knew now whom he was talking about. "It's the man who ordered his dogs to tail Fukuzawa Yumi and Touma Sachiko. In fact, a dog is on the west wall of the Kinomoto compound, eyeing on everyone here."

Touma Ryu's eyes narrowed at Kashiwagi Suguru.

"Ever since Fukuzawa-kun and I came back from your party at Hinomura's place, Ogasawara has been on my backyard, watching Fukuzawa from time to time. He did not even know his cover is already blown the first moment he set his little spot overlooking Fukuzawa's workroom."

Shimata appeared from nowhere and placed a cup of tea on Kashiwagi's table. Ryu eyed the butler, a little restless of what he knew. Suguru spoke, "Ogasawara Kyouichii owes me something, just like he owes you by saving the Ogasawara Zaibatsu. No, that's not right; his debts run deeper than what he owes you, Ryu. I just want to fuck with his guts—you know—to shake him up. He owes me that much."

"Why are you saying this to me?"

Kashiwagi answered. "To set our bounderies. I knew you'd notice my little scheme even after all this time. I know you'd discover me and my reasons for doing this. You probably know now that I am Kinomoto Setsuna's son. It's not as if I wanted to keep on hiding. You're smart but reckless. But you probably know that."

He took a sip from his teacup and motioned for Shimata to offer one to Ryu. Ryu nodded in acceptance. He kept on: "I'm just after him."

"In a sense, Ryu, we all win."

Because family is everything. It is everything.

* * *

"Yes, I clearly know what I heard. But stay your dogs away from my wife."

The man in impaccable business suit grolwed lightly between his teeth. Touma Ryu could not stay calm and act all cocky when it comes to Sachiko even if the patriarch of the Ogasawara family was in front of him. It was the first thing he wanted to do after his trip from Kyoto. Damn superiority and respect for the elders. Not when he learned about Kyouichii's men dropping breadcrumbs behind his wife.

Ogasawara Kyouichii eyed at Ryu with coldness and ferocity that matched the other. He was not used to people cockily raising their faces as if they have a place in the world—he was the only one who can define himself and his worth. But seeing Touma Ryu like that dug up corpses of memories that they buried long ago. What an arrogant boy.

"What overconfidence you have, Touma." Kyouichii grinned as he saw Ryu's weakness like flashes of neon lights against the dark, moonless sky. "Do not make me lose my patience with you. She is my granddaughter, one of my blood. I can do whatever I please with her."

Ryu leveled his eyes at the president. He fought the urge to roll his eyes, but he would speak what he wanted to say. "This is the twentieth century. She's my wife, not your possession."

"Your possession then?" The old man in his thick glasses asked smugly.

Ryu struggled silently to disregard the old man's taunts. He would not be surprise if Kyouichii-sama knew. "She _is_ herself. Do not make me count everything that you owe _me_, Oji-sama."

With that, Touma Ryu headed out of the door.

* * *

Ogasawara Kyouichii knew that Touma Ryu was the right mix that is needed under his company. He has the talent, the skill, and the wealth that a normal family member of the great, old Ogasawara usually had. He is not too proud or arrogant—rather, too cheerful for Kyouichii's indulgence—but he should take this chance as his opportunity. The Touma family had been a very strong competitor in business since Kyouichii's time, back when Ryu's grandfather were still the head of the vast company. They fought hardly and menacingly, surfing into the vast opportunities of the booming economy even after the second world war, gaining and losing other competitions along the way. The old Touma gained Kyouichii's respect, but their game ended early. When the old Touma saw the moment that his son was already capable of handling the company by himself and was very willing to take responsibility on his shoulders, he confidently handed down the torch to his son.

Kyouichii was rather disappointed of Touma's lack of drive and ambition.

Touma's company was always laid-back, subtle on their dealings, but could always be at par with Ogasawara's aggressive methods. They never played each other's game, and never thought of a moment to do so. He seemed to have forgotten all about Touma until a rumor circulated that the second generation Touma, Ryu's father, had thought of passing the proverbial torch to his only son. Out of irritation, or an unpleasant acidic turnover of Kyouichii's stomach upon hearing this news, he picked up the phone and directed it to the first-generation Touma's direct hotline.

He never understood making the youth, a would-be fresh university graduate of Economics be responsible of a company with thousands of employees working for it. For Kyouichii, the scenario would be very horrific, very suicidal. Security was the first thing in his mind, but his Touma counterpart did not understand that. But out of that phone call, Ryu's grandfather shared only a little insight, "I trust my son's attitude, just like he trusts my grandson."

It was as if Touma had been educating a child. Kyouichii remained calm even if his insides were boiling in humiliation.

Then he saw him at a party. And that moment he thought complacently: Touma Ryu do not have an ounce of surviving instinct in his body. Naïve. He could not wait for crocodiles that would feed on him eventually. Yet, as the little boy leveled his eyes to Kyouichii's dark ones, the latter noticed that Touma Ryu was more than his easy atmosphere and ready smile. Ryu was at his best the moment he was introduced to Kyouichii, and stayed confident throughout their small, impersonal conversation. He took a liking at him not because he knew things between knots and bolts, but because he appeared to learn easily. He was willing to be taught. He appeared like an unfilled glass. Kyouichii realized that, maybe, he could hone him into something else greater than what the Touma men before Ryu had taught him.

He's a good match for Sachiko—their temperaments complement each other. But did that matter when a good merger could happen if it were realized? Afterall, marriage was just a piece of paper.

He might even give him the reigns to run the new empire. Let's see how Touma groomed this little pony into their own perception of the perfect heir of the Touma business. Kyouichii observed how Ryu entertained her pitiful granddaughter as they glide on the dance floor. Energetic. Like all other men, he had taken a deeper liking to Sachiko, but the girl seemed not interested to thaw even a little indulgence to the man leading the dance. Lately, Sachiko had been openly expressing her discomfort over these repetitive parties. The oldest Ogasawara had known Sachiko's puny, little hedonistic whims of "disobeying"—her bored, unsavory exterior had rubbed off Kyouichii's back ever since she became a high school student.

(Savor the little freedom, Sachiko-chan. Soon, you'll be fulfilling your role in this great family.)

The first omiai between the Touma and Ogasawara proved to be a success, according to Kyouichii's standards. Ryu-san was trying his best to let his existence be known to poor Sachiko-chan—deviating a little of his restraint to be perfectly cordial and put a little show in front of two families struggling to tie a thin piece of red string. Kyouichii was very amused. Ryu was able to surprise him. Sachiko-chan was also the same—she was pale like she was seeing a ghost as she entertained the man and talk to him while he took his leave out of the room. Ryu used his easy-going way to excuse himself without breaching propriety and used this to talk to the girl.

So Ryu was not only interested with her—he was smitten.

Kyouichii would not disagree.

It is only a matter of time before Sachiko would leave the university and her little _friendship _with that bitch Fukuzawa would end. He would not tear them apart; Sa-chan would dirty her own hands to tear her little affair. She only needed a good push, a very convincing push.

Because Kyouichii knew her little granddaughter's weakness. She could have left the family years ago, when she was eighteen, to experience freedom as her right to do so, but she waited still. She could have been a terrible daughter and heir to the family, yet she tried her best to surpass expectations. She was not stupid to leave. In theory, she was keeping her little affair—her little diversion—with Fukuzawa a secret so that it would not ruin her reputation as the next heir to the family. She wanted immense power. Her every move was attuned with her plans to save a family member, the one closest to her blood and flesh.

(Savor freedom while it lasts.)

Sachiko-chan thought that she could leave the family behind for some woman she met in high school. No, she could not leave the family behind, not when she felt that her own family was not even complete in itself.

Kyouichii would start with Ryu.

Because the family is everything. It is everything.

* * *

Present Day

Murata was about to bring bad news. He being discovered by Kashiwagi's men were enough to anger Ogasawara Kyouichii, who was about to get a simple message from the Kinomoto compound. He had failed the mission, but the bulk of it was already accomplished. In fact, the time that he was about to be caught was the last day of his job before he could personally report. Ogasawara-sama would not be angry because of tardiness; he would because of the letter.

Murata was not supposed to be discovered, as well as the fact that he was the one who ordered it.

That green letter. It was already old, a little crumpled on the edges. The ink used to write the name of the sender was almost faded in time. Yet, Kashiwagi handed it to Shimata as if it were a heavy baggage. Murata could feel how reluctant Kashiwagi was in giving away the letter. _Kinomoto_—why was it very disturbing to deliver one from an extinct family? All members had died, and yet, a letter survived as a reminder of the family of great artists.

He was not expected by Ogasawara-sama. He stood in front of him, silently thinking of companies, private and public, that would accommodate him if ever he would lose his job. He even thought his savings in his bank account for the price of crimation. He already had a couple of back-up plans as he travelled from Kyoto to Tokyo, but still, he should take his chances here. After all, the pay is substantial, if not, very comforting. Therefore, he stood inside the great office, braving the cold stare that Ogasawara Kyouichii had given him.

"I don't expect you here."

He did not answer back.

"You are supposed to report to your superior, not to me." Kyouichii spoke lowly, showing discomfort by Murata's presence. "Well?"

"I came here to deliver this," he extracted the green letter from his breast pocket of his blazer. "Kashiwagi Suguru had discovered my presence in Kyoto and personally wants to meet you. So as not to harm myself, I should deliver this without fail."

Murata put the letter on the table, with the name of the sender visible. It was only a matter of time before he'd be fired.

Kyouichii stared at it, and for a moment, Murata detected a surge of surprise from the former's eyes. He remained oblivious to it, so as not to anger his employer. "Take your leave Murata."

"Yes, sir." He left the room. He was still alive. He planned now to report to his superior and see if he could negotiate in keeping his job.

He closed the double doors.

Inside, Ogasawara Kyouichii stared at the paper for a long time, assessing if he should or not throw this letter at once. Yet he knew to himself that he could not help but indulge to the past.

He knew it even before he instructed Murata Keichii to go to the Kinomoto compound to spy on its current owner and his little painter bitch. He grew too distracted—he kept on insisting to know everything that has been happening inside that compound. Now, the past was coming back, haunting him. He should have stayed away, just like he intended to do.

He took the letter gently. He straightened the creases of its sides with delicate, deliberate movement of his now brittle fingers, smoothing. He looked at the handwriting and imagined a porcelain hand emanating the smell of freshly made glue and smudged with glistening blue pigments—dried paint at the edges of the fingernails—to flex and straighten while handling a brush to write the kanji _Kinomoto._

He knew by heart whose handwriting it was. Even though only the characters "Kinomoto" were there. No first names. His heart constricted as he visibly winced while touching the characters written upon the green envelope.

_Setsuna_. Kinomoto Setsuna.

It was her delicate brushwork.

* * *

How did Kashiwagi Suguru know? How? Should he meet him? What happened to Setsuna? Twenty-eight years have passed since he never heard of her. Did he know?

The family is everything. It is everything.

* * *

Ryu looked at Sachiko's sleeping face for the last hour since they were returned to bed. It was already very late but he could not find any means of dozing himself to sleep. As he looked her, he could not suppress his anger at the reality that he was denying ever since he met her: her mind and heart was not always here at home and they were always somewhere else, somewhere that she wished to be. He understood that he was careless not to look into her deeply and understandingly as a man should—he felt that he was not good enough. That there was something lacking in him that she would never be satisfied.

He did not dare look into her heart deeply, fearing of her rejection once he knew. Now, he did. Fukuzawa Yumi was the reason. Sachiko was still gripping into her past that she even had the nerve to fraternize with an ex behind her husband's back. But, how would he know the truth behind it? How could he understand if jealousy was clouding his judgement?

But how could he settle this turbulent feelings if he could not even find the courage to confront her with it? What if his judgment was wrong? What if she wanted to settle this matter by herself, without telling anyone? Why won't she tell him? Can't she trust him?

She won't betray him, will she?

He would try to understand, no, he would understand.

But he needed to hear from her mouth, and soon.

He needed to be calm about this. Never be agitated. He won't lose her. He won't give a chance.

All he needed was courage to hear the words from her mouth. A reassurance despite the trust that he would offer.

He pulled the sheets up to their necks. He fastened stray hair to her exposed ear, gently cupped a cheek, and said, "I love you, Sachiko."

He just put her arms above her middle and rested his forehead against hers, trying to scavenge a little warmth, not from the blanket covering them, but from her.

He did not expect an answer.

* * *

The very young Ogasawara Sachiko looked at her mother's eyes as the latter combed Sachiko's long black hair with her fingers. The little child's head was resting on her Sayako's lap, savoring the soft scrape of fingernails upon her scalp. She always enjoyed their quiet moments like this during bedtime, when Sachiko was about to go asleep. Sayako would tell her stories, mostly about princes, princesses, and witches. But after the lengthy and colorful narration of a fairy tale, when Sachiko was about to seize sleep, her mother would ask little Sachiko about little things like:

"Sachiko-chan, can you tell the difference between seeing and looking?"

". . . of hearing and listening?"

". . . of grieving and crying?"

In the midst of being asleep and awake, Sachiko would search her mother's eyes to look for the right answers Sayako was looking for her, but she found nothing. No answer at all. Instead, Sayako would focus her glistened dark eyes and smile to her daughter and then Sachiko's spirits would fly up the sky. Sachiko would sit up and search for answers from her mother's gaze but she would forget to answer as Sayako kissed both her cheeks and let Sachiko's head rest on her lap again.

In vain, Sachiko would think hard of the difference between seeing and looking, of hearing and listening, and of grieving and crying. Eventually, she would be lulled into sleep, as Sayako's fingers would once more reclaim Sachiko's long black tresses and caress her scalp.

(They are just the same, aren't they, Okaa-sama?!)

Every time they were alone in Sachiko's room, whenever Tooru was a away for business, Sayako would ask her one of those questions before going to sleep.

She woke up from her dream, noticing Ryu so close by—his hand resting on her cheeks. His hand was warm and so was the other, which was possessively encircled around her middle. Even with the darkness of the room and the scarce light emanated from the moon outside, she watched him as he slept, and she noticed creases upon his eyebrows—he was not sleeping well lately. She touched the tense part, and she noticed that Ryu uncontrollably hesitated, but gave in to the touch.

As she watched him sleep, she realized that she knew the answer to her mother's questions since she was a child still fascinated by fairy tales.

The women of the Ogasawara family are taught to know the answer to those questions.

After all, it was for the family.

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

A/N: I know there are less and less interaction among the canon characters, but please give me time to sort things out. Maybe the reason I was stuck in a block was because I am still understanding the characters that I innovated. I hope you appreciated this chapter. Still tired of how this chapter turned out. I would love hearing from you readers, so please drop a line or two.


	16. Chapter 16

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

CHAPTER 16:

* * *

Kashiwagi's pitch-black hair and light tan complexion shone even though the dark tint of the sedan filtered the sunlight from the outside. Yumi watched him once more as he sat and looked at outside his window without a single movement.

It was now late afternoon.

They were heading to her old place, the gallery, because she was being summoned to discuss an important matter. Sei mentioned before she left Kashiwagi's compound about the summons, and went ahead before Yumi. Kashiwagi joined her later.

She did not realize that they were already in the gallery; Shimata already opened the door of the car for them yet Yumi still felt that she could not move. It had not been a long time since she went here—it has been her haven for almost four years, yet she felt foreign coming back. Maybe, it was the dread that she would see her old painting of Sachiko hanging on the wall as replacement for _The Passing Wind._ And indeed, when Kashiwagi prompted her to move, with sudden nudge on her unsuspecting shoulder or his hand on her back, she felt a little relieved to move on. When they passed to the east wing, the Nihonga section, she could not help but glance at Sachiko—the unpolished image of her. She wore her guilt in front of Kashiwagi, who somehow understood her and smirked: yes, she was quite a closet pervert in her university days. Yumi making something like that.

Sachiko was crazy to show that to the whole world. Her purpose, whatever it was, was still an enigma. Wow, she is stupid—a trait Yumi would never associate to Sachiko.

Hinomura, her boss, was surprised when he saw Kashiwagi with Yumi. The painter resumed covering her ears as Kashiwagi and Hinomura discussed Yumi's performance with the Kinomoto paintings. (So, Hinomura knew that the paintings belonged to the Kinomoto's?) Kashiwagi discussed the matter as if it were never a secret; maybe he trusted Hinomura that much. After what happened in Kyoto with Hinomura's father, her old professor and mentor, she was still surprised on how that bastard's son was so different from him. The man that she almost fell for even after she vowed herself never to love someone after Sachiko.

Sachiko—her mind wandered further away; Sachiko—she was always the standard. After her, little seemed to matter. But then, Yumi sulked as she remembered: _damn her_.

"Fukuzawa-kun?" Kashiwagi's voice interrupted her.

This was when she found her brother and Yoshino at the door, the former closing it. She realized that it was about her missing painting. Then she heard Kashiwagi once more, "I need to go, Yumi, since this doesn't concern me. I shall wait for you outside."

Yumi looked at him levelly, "No, thanks. But I'll see you later then."

Kashiwagi stared at her a second longer, but replied rather flatly, "Alright."

Yoshino and Yuuki, who were watching the exchange, thought without restraint the reason why Yumi was not showing irritation at the mention of her name in an unprofessional way. Yuuki bowed to his sempai as he walked through the door but his eyes remain focused and unmoving, darting Kashiwagi a questioning look. The latter ignored it. Yoshino, however, took a step and bowed to Hinomura.

Only four people were in the room.

"Fukuzawa-kun, I know we summoned you in such a short notice, but in respect for your efforts in this gallery, we intend to make this announcement as acceptable to you." Upon hearing this from Hinomura, Yoshino braced herself. Yuuki and she knew about this, but they had no choice about the matter. It was not their call. "I'm afraid I need to call the search for your painting is discontinued."

Yoshino jerked to look at Yumi to gauge her outburst, but she found Yumi to be calm. Even though Yumi's hands were balling into fists in her pockets. Yet, Hinomura seemed unaware of Yumi's fury emanating just from her firsts. "You seem not surprised, Fukuzawa," came Hinomura's words with genuine concern.

"Why should I?"

Yuuki interrupted. "Everything that we do leads to a dead-end. We have tried our hardest; the police department took every measure to identify a clue from what the witnesses and suspects had been saying and the gathered evidence, but everything leads to a dead-end."

Yoshino, feeling that Yumi needed further explanation, decided to interfere, "The insurance company decided to just stop looking for it, and just secure the insurance covered for it. Satou-san took care of—"

"Fine. Chief, is this all I need to know?" Yumi asked nicely.

"Yes, Yumi-san. I'm sorry I could not keep my promise." Hinomura replied.

"Can't be helped. Am I dismissed?"

"Yes."

Then, Yumi headed out for the door.

Yoshino eyed Hinomura and gave him an incredulous look. Her irritation to Yumi's reaction was emanating in her tired features—she fought tooth and nail against her superiors and Hinomura to continue the search. Yuuki was with Yoshino's side, but his slightest hesitation got the best of him, that soon he folded to his superior's orders. In other words, Yoshino's predictions came true—Yumi's work was not perpetually a matter of importance. There are many things in life to consider; why would they waste their time for a painting?

She grunted. Hinomura noticed her irritation. "You know my intentions, Shimazu-kun."

"I know; I know. I hear you. Insurance is insurance."

* * *

_Sei, where are you. Where the fuck are you?_

Yumi rushed to Sei's office and found it empty. The papers messily piled on her table and floor were gone. Pencils used as darts sticking upon the ceiling were gone; instead, they were neatly arranged in a can at the shelf behind Sei's table. The air was devoid of musty, saturated, old specks of dust. Paintings were dusted. The completely stuffy office was cleaned.

When she asked for Sei, the secretary told her that she had not reported today. Sei's mobile phone was unattended.

She didn't like this.

_Where are you, Sei? Where are you to explain things properly?_

* * *

Yoshino and Yuuki both walked out and found Yumi looking at Sachiko's portrait. She looked unruffled, but when she noticed the two walking around, she gave them a bored smirk. Yoshino would rather find Yumi in a fit of disappointment and sadness, but she gave the Yoshino a nonchalant glare. How could one produce a nonchalant glare?

Yoshino said. "I'm sorry."

"I know this time will come. But still, I just can't believe that this trash of an unsigned painting replaced _The Passing Wind. _How . . . amusing. You remember Yuuki," his sister looked at him coyly, "back when we stood in front of this wall, when it used to be blank? I prefer it that way."

Yoshino noticed Yuuki's neck muscles constricted. She noticed how the investigation mattered to the police officer, yet all they were hearing from the painter was indifferent remarks. They knew that they've tried really hard. Yuuki, however, was thinking of the very same scene Yumi described: _Just get my stuff back where it belongs. I'm busy._

Yuuki scowled at her sister, "We have no choice. The police gave up; the gallery gave up."

Yumi seemed not to notice the heat in her brother's eyes. "Finally, you agreed with me."

Yoshino looked at Yumi incredulously. _Couldn't she see why Yuuki was like this? He did not give this job up. He tried his best to continue because he knew that the painting is very important to you. He tried even though he knew searching for it was futile from day one. It was a hopeless case, but he did try. Couldn't she, at least, appreciate that?_

Yoshino was beginning to itch to have the old Yumi back.

The male Fukuzawa gritted once more; he was still not done with her sister. "So, is it always about that? You never moved on. You kept that painting to yourself because it retains what you are now. You painted your hatred to that piece, and awe on it. Do you think everyone would want you to be like that forever? Touko may have accepted that, but I don't. You are destroying yourself."

Yumi scowled. "Do not give reasons because you fail, Yuuki."

"Sometimes, I just hope that painting's burned to ashes. So that you'd forget your petty attachment." Yuuki muttered as he stalked away to the hallway.

Yoshino glared at Yumi, who was now walking away to her old office. She hollered. "He is just concerned about you. Do you think he liked what his superiors told him? Do you think he wants to end this?"

"No, I don't."

"Then why are you provoking everyone?!" Yoshino asked friskly.

Yumi just walked away, not even considering that Yoshino was behind her.

* * *

Yumi was not even inside her workroom in the gallery when she smelled a waft of expensive perfume in the air, almost battling against the dominant odor of turpentine and glue. She hurriedly strode inside, and found that her office was empty, just like how she left it months ago. Still the rose-scented perfume was still hanging in the air. Yoshino, who was behind her, stopped at the scent. She immediately thought that this was not the good time for them to meet, but when she saw Yumi opened the door of her workroom, she found Sachiko standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by canvases that were facing the walls.

Fukuzawa Yumi's unfinished businesses.

"What are you doing here?" Yumi immediately demanded from the woman.

* * *

_Two days ago_

"I need to leave now, Yumi. Hinomura-san is already waiting for me in the gallery." Sei said, after a day of staying in Yumi's workroom. She was already upon the slide doors. "You are needed in Musashino two days from now. I've spoken to Kashiwagi-san about it. I hope you won't forget that."

Yumi fought the urge to ask her about her painting for a day, tumbling into series of phrases that would lead Sei to mention _The Passing Wind_ in one of their threads of conversation. It proved to be difficult—she noticed the twinkle of amusement in Sei's eyes, which signaled her pride to force back the question. Most of the day, Sei just watch her restore the Setsuna painting, sprinkling little praises for the painter here and there—sometimes teasing Yumi to try harder to be at par with the unknown painter—but Yumi just ignored them. Yes, she was truly amazed on how the Kinomoto family saturated their talent generation by generation.

(Sei had been skewering Yumi's faults of being unable to produce a finished art for two years).

Too bad—Yumi reckoned—it all ended with Setsuna.

Yumi finally asked, while she was tending on the Setsuna painting: "Sei, what happening with Yuuki and Yoshino's search?"

Sei replied quickly, "They had no idea of where it is. They had been going on circles. Instead, they were just digging things that were buried to the ground a long time ago, nothing leading to it."

Yumi's eyes narrowed at the shadow of Sei's form elongated on the tatami mats of her workroom. She settled her brushes down and removed the multiple lenses on her eyes. "How do you know, Sei? I don't think Yuuki would be too open with you about his search; Yoshino might have given you the info, then?"

Yumi heard Sei giggled faintly. "You're right."

She then stood from her stool and removed her gadgets from her person, then her apron. She grabbed on a clean towel from a table and cleaned her hands and arms. Then she went outside the room, leaving Sei upon the door. Yumi smirked, "Come on, I'll show you out the compound. That's the least I can do."

They were walking side by side, Sei towering Yumi. The former White Rose looked at her little kouhai, and remembered the times when she would looked down at Fukuzawa Yumi with a smile on her face—a calm, unhurried face—and small trot by her energetic petite legs. Now, she was looking at Yumi's smug grin and dead, half-closed eyes—every step of her feet weighed heavily. Sei was a hypocrite, and she knew it.

"We should tell Kashiwagi-san that you're leaving." Yumi advised, as they turned at another hallway.

It was not an unusual suggestion, but Sei still raised a brow at the recognition of Kashiwagi's name. "You don't have to. He doesn't care when I leave. Leave him be, Yumi."

Yumi copied the same expression.

When they were already at the tall wooden walls surrounding the compound, Yumi stood at the gates to bid farewell to her good friend.

"Before, when you learned that you were going to Kyoto, you were terrified, even just the thought of it. It reminded you of Hinomura-sensei and his treachery, but most of your fears centered on Sachiko's leaving you. It's not the place, but what happened there. Everyone tampered on your trust. But now, you seemed not to care about Kyoto anymore. You just get used to it, and you forget. Maybe because you spent most of your time here in the compound." Sei said.

Sei stood near Yumi and gently kissed the skin at the side of the painter's mouth.

Yumi was astonished. She could not move in her spot, stiffly planted on the ground. She could not think of a reason Sei would do such a thing. They were not high school students anymore—and such gesture from both of them is an awkward welcome. She could have considered it as a playful kiss, but when she looked at her eyes, she saw nothing of a teasing Sei.

"I'll remain loyal to you, no matter what happens. I'll be seeing you."

She did not realize Sei was already walking away in the sunset without explanations.

* * *

In the evening, Kashiwagi resumed to his usual spot in the hallway, again sipping another cup of hot tea. Yumi was a little annoyed with his return; a few days off of his presence here and she thought that it would be a long time before she could get used to his absence, but now, what she did not predicted pissed her off. Yeah, the aroma of tea would stick once more in her workroom's air. Damn it, she hates being wrong.

During the course of her intricate restoration of the first tenths of Setsuna's painting, she was frequently bothered by a stare from the outside of her workroom; she found out that Kashiwagi was a little bit attached to the painting, watching the painting losing chipped paint and being sliced by ex-acto knives. In the second hour in this night shift, she spat out in her annoyance, "Yo, Kashiwagi, you know what? I can stop working this baby, leave you alone with it the whole night, rather than staring at it through my back as if you were aiming with a sniper's scope. I can't concentrate with you _spying_ around. Jesus."

"Something off?" Kashiwagi was caught, but he did not allow Yumi to notice.

"Just an exhausting day." She answered. When his response was just a loud slurping sip from his tea, Yumi's head jerked off and faced him. "Why did you not tell me Sei was coming over?"

He looked at her quizzically, "You know how she is; she likes to give herself flashy entrances."

Yumi remembered how Sei reacted before when Yumi talked about Kashiwagi and his obsession with the Kinomoto paintings back at the Ginkaku-ji, when Sei and Yoshino was around Kyoto. She noticed how Sei's gray eyes darken in amusement when she remarked on Kashiwagi's dealings, as if Sei were remembering a private joke between her and him. Yumi overlooked this before.

(Why does she feel this creepy thought that the world is really smaller than she thought?)

"And you allowed that. My first impression of you is that you don't like it when people just loiter around your place without you knowing their every move. But you let her in." She grunted. "Suddenly I feel that you know her more than I think I know."

"Why do you think so?"

"You were sizing me up, even before, Kashiwagi-san. Just like what you did when Touma came here for an overdue picnic. You challenged me to into them. Is that to make fun of me, or do you have noble intentions behind that?"

She just heard a slurp.

She heard Kashiwagi stood up from his seat outside the hallway; he went inside her workroom—the aroma of a freshly prepared tea saturating as he walked. He handed down a cup of tea to Yumi's side and the latter accepted it. "Touma Ryu and Sachiko really angered you. And Satou Sei's appearance made you remember them." Kashiwagi supplied.

"Because she knows everything. Which I suspect that you do, too. _Ne_, what else do you know about my life?"

He looked at her, and from the look on his face, he was weighing words to be said by his mouth. He said slowly, "Do you know why I am always here every evening sipping tea?"

"To piss me off?" Yumi answered coolly. She resumed on her work, and responded with a hoarse voice and bleak interest. "Or fuck me, maybe? That's what I thought after you kissed me days ago. No, when you did a fucked-up alternation of a confession before that. Waiting for the right moment? Honestly, I don't take you as a romantic type. You're rough, aren't you, baby?" She paused to gulp on her cooling tea and then drove back to her work.

"You talk about sex like the weather and news." He appeared not surprised by her explanations. "I thought we agreed never to bring it up again."

Yumi replied flatly. "It's as natural as the weather and the news." Another question unanswered.

He appeared offended. "You are confusing."

Yumi felt Kashiwagi's gaze upon the painting. She ignored him, trying not to look at his face more than she should. A memory resurfaced and reminded herself not to be too distracted—she remembered that she once consider him a good figure model. A sketch of him would not be so bad, she remembered herself thinking that, but she never had the opportunity to extract a prologing motivation to do so. She remembered the face he wore when he inspected the decrepit paintings during her first days of stay in the compound, and she admired how he was possessive with them. Just by watching.

Again, the question: What makes him so attached to the Kinomoto's?

Kashiwagi asked abruptly. "Why did Touma Sachiko left you?"

Yumi recovered without breaking the brush she was holding. "A while ago you accused me of being rude."

"Just answer the question." He snapped.

"It's not your fucking business." She answered quickly.

Suguru said, "Few days after we came back from Musashino, one of my men noticed a man upon the west wall of the compound, walking around the area. He had this uncanny habit of wearing a fedora hat. On the first day, he loitered along the elevated woodlands just near the wall. On the second day, he rented a room near a coffee shop that he used to meet another man for a chat. On the third day, he was gone. I was about to dismiss the man's movements when a few days later, he appeared once more. I was sipping tea outside and I could see his fedora hat sitting on his head as he watched us. More so, when the Touma Ryu came for a visit. Few days ago, I told Shimata that I'm done with him."

(Done with him?)

He noticed a curious worry in Yumi's face. "I confronted him. I was able to convince him to run an errand for me: to return to his master. He was spying on you."

"Who is his master?"

"Ogasawara Kyouichii. Why is he after you?"

_Ogasawara Kyouichii. Ogasawara._ She realized she knew the correct answer.

Anger was boiling in her once again. She did not notice the ex-acto knife she was holding and in her struggle to bottle up her emotion, she cut the middle finger of her right hand. She felt the sting in her finger and grumbled a sharp expletive.

Suguru noticed her distress. He immediately put down the tea he was holding and crouched near Yumi, trying to take hold of her right arm. When Yumi pulled her hand away in surprise ("I can take care of this."), Suguru asked her, "Do not move. Do you have a clean towel?"

Yumi looking around the room for anything that could stop the bleeding, but she grunted; no clean towel. He rolled his eyes and frowned. Drops of blood splattered on the tatami mat.

"Put your finger to your mouth."

"Are you kidding me?! The blood—"

"What an idiot. Give me your finger." He held her wrist and took half of the injured digit to his mouth.

She sat rigid as she felt saliva soaking her broken skin. When she felt that it was not bleeding anymore, Kashiwagi took his cup of warm tea and released her finger to dip it to the liquid. Then, he settled the cup on the tatami mat with the finger submerged.

He went outside and the room and spat out the built saliva from his mouth. He then ordered, "Don't take the wound out until I come back."

He came back with a first-aid kit. He tended on the wound while Yumi just watched her hand. While Suguru was tearing gauze, he asked, "Why is he after you?"

She felt intense pain as the clean-cut flesh rub against each other. She flinched as Suguru held her hand. "Don't act like an idiot; you know it. His grandfather and Sachiko—they're at it again. I knew it."

"What are you going to do about it?"

She looked at her wound and dismissed the pain. "Ignore it while I can. You should have told me sooner. Sachiko doesn't understand that I don't want her around; this is the reason."

Kashiwagi narrowed his eyes. "It's all about his family, Fukuzawa-san." He fastened the gauze. "He does everything to protect it. It means that you may be a threat to him. I will make sure he doesn't bother you anymore."

* * *

_Present Day_

"What are you doing here?"

There was more to Kashiwagi Suguru that she remembered his words.

Yoshino almost tumbled through the door as she heard Yumi shouted. This never looked good. Yoshino asked Sachiko to meet her; she just was not expecting the heiress loitering around Yumi's workroom. For an intelligent woman like Sachiko, she was stupid enough to know that she was Yumi's landmine never to be stepped on. And she was here, at the cradle of Yumi's disappointments. "Shit shit shit . . ." Yoshino whispered.

She should have not called for the meeting here at the gallery. But what was done was done. Yoshino had to suffer Yumi's wrath again. She braved out, "She came with me."

Confusion clouded Sachiko's eyes but hid it well. Yoshino noticed Yumi suddenly backing away to the door. She looked at Sachiko with contempt, but she—_what is this —does she see sympathy in Yumi's eyes?_

"Do not—stay away from me." Yumi clenched.

In time, Yoshino shut the door of the workroom. None of what would transpire today will go out beyond its walls. "Stay put, Yumi."

"Who do you think—?"

"I said stay put, Yumi." Yoshino ordered. She heaved paint-smelling air, and continued, "She came here for you."

Yoshino knew that Yumi decided this was a trap. The painter's glare was slicing her already but she did not respond to the question. Instead, she remained silent.

"It is not too late. I'm here to help."

Yumi snapped. "I don't need your help. And besides, our little Miss Sherlock here said that it is a lost cause."

Sachiko pursued, "There will always be other ways to look for it."

"No, Sachiko. I will never turn to you." Yoshino's grip to the doorknob became tighter as she heard Yumi's replied calmly; her voice thick and grim. Yoshino blanched. Again, Yumi was shelling herself. "Or to anyone now. That painting . . . is a reminder for me, Sachiko. I can make another one; I can do that. Another replica. Besides, I still have inspiration to do it."

"Yumi-san, do not think of the worst."

Yumi raised her palm to stop Sachiko. "No. It's just that _I don't trust you_. I don't trust that your help will just be out of your good heart and not a disguise for a favor or a deal from the devil."

"Why would I do that?"

"Then what will you gain from helping me? My trust? Our friendship? Nothing. No one does that nowadays. If the painting were found, what should I do in return? Do I owe now the Ogasawara family?"

Sachiko tried, "My family—"

"You can never help me by yourself. You will always depend on the power of your family to be able to move."

Sachiko glared at Yumi, taking offense on Yumi's words. "Do not include my family or anyone in this."

Yumi rumbled, "They are always on my back whenever I am with you! Don't you understand? Whenever you are with me, the shadow of your grandfather will always be there! Ever since you came back, he does nothing but to watch me! He does nothing but to watch you fail and punish everyone because of it. He does nothing but to torment everyone I hold dear!"

"What?"

Yumi's look away from Sachiko. "He sent someone to watch me ever since we came back to Kyoto after the party. He must have known that you've tried to see me, and he watched how you've tried to settle things between us. If it not for Kashiwagi-san, I would never realize, that ever since then, your grandfather just loves keeping you to himself.

"Everything that you do, the weight of your family is always behind you. Everything that is between us is always your family. Your grandfather is always watching you; he manipulates just to place you to where he thinks you belong. You know that from the start and you've done nothing to change it.

"You are his slave. You will never release yourself from them; your family will never set you free. I thought you never liked to be chained, but deep inside you loved being in a leash. No, you love being your grandfather's center of attention. You love that you rile him. You love being his disappointment."

Yoshino gasped when Ogasawara Sachiko, the ever-calm princess of the Ogasawara Group, slapped Fukuzawa Yumi in front of her. Yet Yumi did not flinch at the contact; her face was cool, as if she were expecting it.

Sachiko shook. She touched the hand that hurt Yumi, gripped it to stop it from fidgeting, as if it were possessed. _Why did I slap her? No—I would never do that. I'd _never_ do that . . . _never_ . . . _never_ . . . ._

When she looked at Yumi and found the latter showing her _nothing. _Sachiko said dejectedly, "You truly know me, Yumi. Even after all these years, you can still read my heart."

_This is why I hate seeing you. For I know your true intention. _Yumi thought as she endured the pain on her cheek in feigned indifference.

Yumi's small flinch was not unnoticed by the woman standing before the door.

Sachiko evenly said as she straightened herself. "I will look for it, with or without your permission. I will bring it back to you. This is all I can do as your _grande seour_."

Yoshino opened the door for Sachiko.

* * *

She was lost the moment she slapped Yumi. She knew that somehow, her grandfather would extend his limbs just so he could push Yumi away from her. Just like what he did before. Of what he ordered her to do. What Yumi said was true—no, there was more to that—they both want to torment each other.

She was thankful that he had done nothing perilious. She was thankful Kashiwagi was there. She would make sure Ogasawara Kyouichii would know Touma Sachiko had been stretched too tightly. This would not go overlooked.

But now, this is not about her and her grandfather anymore. She made her choices in the past; she accepted it. She has the present as her hope. And she will not give up on that. To walk to the arms of her present and future.

She walked away from the gallery. She needed to talk to Kashiwagi Suguru.

* * *

The atmosphere in Yumi's workroom dropped as Yoshino remained quiet as Yumi stood in the middle of the room. Time ticked as both of them tried not to react to what transpired between Yumi and Sachiko a while ago. Yoshino wanted to follow the Ogasawara heiress outside to see her condition, but she decided not to. Yoshino was now convinced that Yumi was much more of a problem than she was.

Yoshino warned. "That was too low."

"Eventually she has to hear it."

"From you? Last time I check you don't have the right to say that to her." Yoshino tried not to shout.

"It's not about me having that right. It is about her being a real bother. It is about shoving the truth to her face." Yumi failed to produce a smirk. That effort alone raged Yoshino.

She walked towards Yumi. "The truth?" Yoshino tried to control her anger by balling her hands to fists. "Do you want me to tell you what I think?"

"Try me."

"You always think about yourself."

"Is that a bad thing?"

_Do not shout. It does not do anything. _"Yumi, what do you really want? Do you want it to be found or not? Because you are not helping. You did not even take a portion of your time to look for it! Instead, you behaved as if it wasn't important to you. Then, I'd see you like this, turning away from everyone when they did not meet your expectations? What about you, have you even tried? What are you? What happened to you?"

_Motherf—this again! _Yumi said, "What—is this about the _old Yumi_ again? I am tired of you—"

Yoshino shouted back. "Yes, this is about you! That fucking old you! I tried to know you again, to understand you, of whatever happened to you, but you are getting out of hand. You act as if you had the most horrible past. You act as if God had abandoned you, that everyone abandoned you. You act as if the whole world turned against you! You don't want to be pitied, but here you are, parading yourself as if you lost all your arms in a war. As if you've lost everything. This is not about Sachiko leaving you. Not anymore. You should have not given yourself up with just this one failure! Sachiko is not what defines your whole life! You are more than just Sachiko!"

So much for restraining herself from shouting.

Yoshino noticed Yumi was shaking in anger: her jaw stiff, her teeth baring out and biting her lower lips, her hands clenching. Yumi was looking downward trying not to look at Yoshino's eyes. Still, Yoshino did not care a shit anymore, whether her name would appear in Yumi's black list. She was determined to knock pettiness and immaturity out of her friend. She felt that Yumi stunted herself ever since Sachiko left her.

Yumi should have moved on. She should have forgiven Sachiko, regardless of what she had done. She should have looked to the future with her usual cheerfulness. She should have hurdled through these petty trials. She should have braved herself. She used to be like that. She was more than this.

She was more than this.

"Ever since you turn yourself like this, you love the attention people are giving to you. You love how they try hard to earn your trust. And you love to play them to your bidding, to reach out to you, then shove them away." Yoshino fought not to free her tears. If ever she sound and looked heartless, she didn't care. Yumi should taste her own medicine. "This is you being such an _immature, phony, cowardly_ whore."

Yumi bawled throatily and slapped Yoshino. In bitter anger, Yoshino heaved, drew out her fist, and punched Yumi squarely on her left cheek—the same cheek that Sachiko slapped.

Yumi staggered backward and Yoshino took her chance to push Yum backward. Yumi fell on her behind and Yoshino held her to the ground, fearing that Yumi would retaliate with punches.

Yoshino's fist was readied, her other forearm defending her front if ever Yumi would attack. The painter, however, gave up when she saw Yoshino's white knuckles positioned. "When do you want us to save you from yourself?" A hoarse whisper came. "When will you want yourself to be saved?"

Yoshino was crying—her vision blurred—and Yumi could not look at her.

Yumi froze and blurted a violent "Tsk." Of course Yumi knew her faults. It was already too long a time since she allowed ignoring herself before others. Now, it would be just herself she'd care about.

Selfish, she is. But she did have her choices, she just chose the easiest way.

Yumi smirked, unafraid of the poised fist hanging just above her head. "Do you think this is old news to me?"

Yoshino's face was hardened even in tears. "No, it's not. And it's not new to you that your friends tried to drill the truth to you. They just got tired of reminding you what you were. I have all night, Yumi. I can keep up with your bullshit until you break." Yoshino said, anticipating vengeful reprisal. But she kept her head high, not fazed by fear.

Yumi pushed Yoshino away. "You don't understand!"

"Yeah, I don't understand your pain. But I expected that you'd be so much mature than I'll ever be, but you disappoint me. You're supposed to be ahead . . ."

Yumi direct a finger against Yoshino's chest. "I don't intend to comply with your expectations, Yoshino. You are just like everyone else, looking for something that isn't there."

"No. It's there. You get tired from time to time. The arrogance that you're showing off is just defense to stop anyone from salting your weakness." Yoshino struck her fist against the ground, just wheezing near Yumi's left ear. "Shit. Should I pound your skull to prove my point? You're not stupid." Yoshino pulled Yumi's shoulders upward and embraced her tightly.

"I love you, Yumi." Yoshino sobbed as she held Yumi. "You're my best friend."

Yoshino felt tears soaking her shirt by the shoulder. It's still here, she believed. It's still here.

* * *

Yumi shoved her away.

She was crying as she tore herself from what she believed was a warm embrace.

_Eventually, you all will leave me. True, it was not about Sachiko anymore. It is about everyone. Soon, you will leave me. Why bother?_

* * *

Yoshino turned away. The heaviness in her heart yearned to collect Yumi to her arms, to console the aftermath of their fight, but she hesitated. She loved Yumi so—she told her—but does Yumi needed to suffer greatly to understand her foolishness? Not just to acknowledge them, but to take action? Does she want everyone, including her, to wish Yumi to suffer to see the consequences?

She did not watch Yumi leave the door, closing it gently, which surprised Yoshino.

Yet, as she sulked in the middle of the workroom, she realized that she somehow wished for it. In sheer fear of her thoughts, she felt the poison of her silent betrayal. She is Yumi's best friend. No, wishing her demise is unbecoming.

But then, was it a necessary evil?

No. Not when she learned that Ogasawara Kyouichii indeed was playing in the field.

* * *

{AFTERMATH}

There were one thing that Kyouichii regretted the past few decades; it was not having courage to settle debts to those who he owed long ago. It was not because he deliberately allowed it to happen; he chose not to deal with it. And it was not related to bank papers. His debts were more abstract, shifted mainly to the moral scale. He was never used to debts—he was rich to begin with. When he thought of Setsuna, he knew that his weakness was being poked at. And Kashiwagi Suguru was the last straw.

He read the letter several times just to know if this indeed was true and legitimate. He would never guess that Setsuna could say goodbye to him in this carefree manner, almost not herself. She was always the serene one and very privy of her thoughts. Not even him could gauge what she was thinking. In the short surreal months that they have indulged together, he gave up reading her after the third time he was surprised by her spontaneity. She was truly an artist—never to be fully comprehended.

Their parting was devastating for her—he was sure. He made certain that it was the case and he regretted it when he himself orchestrated it. But did he have a choice? Deep inside him, he knew he had options, but he was too blind to consider them.

But to have regrets was being weak. It was done and over three decades ago, and it should have left him indifferent if he would be confronted by it at present. He thought wrong. He never did fulfill his promise, neither payed his debt. And it killed him that she was coming back through a letter—a piece of paper with no certainty of reply.

He never presumed that sleuthing into Sachiko's business would spring forth more problems. No, he contradicted; it was she who was bringing problems. He taught her to be loyal to the family, to do everything for the family. He told her that for her not to suffer the same mistakes that he had done in the past. Yes, he was the second generation, but such title meant that he was a successor to a business single-handedly built by his father with all his blood and flesh. It is true that the Ogasawara family was very old, but that did not mean that it was constantly strong. By far, his father's line was the one that only survived until now. And that line was used to be considered as the weakest branch family. Long ago, they were the small fry. Long ago, his father's family was deemed nothing more than leech, scouring into the main branch family just because they happened to belong to a family called Ogasawara.

Soon, they were abandoned by the main branch. They were betrayed until they were cut off.

His father persevered, and soon he had money. Then immense power. Then, pride.

No one knew that. History, in reality, is not entirely written into a book.

But that line—his father's line made history better than those in the main branch. It was now being written and recorded. The main branch was not able to achieve even that.

That was why he strongly advised Sachiko to stay loyal to his orders. Because he knew, he was right. Youth were expected to behave differently from the predecessors, which were scornfully branded as outdated, however, the _essence_ of the world had not change since his time, his father's time, and his father before him. Youth are adventurous, but incredibly reckless, and they would realize in their failures that they should better listen with an open ear and another closed.*

He had seen more, experienced more than Sachiko had. He lost more than she did. He witnessed the darker side of the world than she had.

He never thought that Fukuzawa Yumi would lead him to Kinomoto Setsuna, with a piece of green letter from Kashiwagi Suguru. He would have thought that the man—who was recently popular in his corporate circle—had threatened him with privy information. No one must know about Setsuna. How did he know?

Before he knew it, Kashiwagi Suguru had breached more of his defenses than he expected. He had crawled inside the Ogasawara Zaibatsu discreetly and already made himself a niche, only to prop himself a seat for the next stockholders' meeting. How he breached passed Sachiko's and even Ryu's radar quickly was beyond Kyouichii. How Kashiwagi passed even his own radar was even more abysmal.

Murata told him that Fukuzawa Yumi was in Kashiwagi's compound, but he missed out that it was the Kinomoto's former home. He failed to give importance to Kashiwagi, knowing that he was just Yumi's employer. He was too focused on whatever Sachiko was doing behind his back. He was paranoid that Sachiko would give up the family's future, wherein the family's building legacy would end in her generation.

Because, until now, she was still unable to produce an heir. The next son that would bear the name of Ogasawara. That soon she would fail her obligation to the family. She is fortunate to have everything with a raise of a hand.

But now, Kashiwagi Suguru was forbidding him to act rationally, especially when he held the memory of Setsuna like a proud banner. She was a banner never to be raised.

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N: ***"_Pakinggan mo ang sinabi ko sa isang tenga, at 'di ito ilabas sa kabila._" – is a common saying in Filipino wordplay that one, particularly a junior, should listen to his senior and plant the words to their brain and _not _forget it. Unlike listening on one ear and reject it with the other. Something like that.

**A/N2: **Just like the last chapters, this monster is hard to procure. It took a very hurting spank and the-reason-you-suck speech from _le_ sister to overhaul this chapter and make this presentable. I have to admit that the last post was anticlimactic—I just shoved important information to the readers without a building the tension and adding hints. But assume whatever you may want to assume. XD

I really thank those who reviewed the previous chapters. It means so much to me that you took time to let me know your thoughts. Though I am deeply sorry I could not reply to them this time, in fear that my reply would be just a sentence or two back then. Real life is rather an aggravating troll, and it took a _damning_ toll in my writing. I really love long discussions and much so, with you who took time and long sentences expressing your thoughts, thus I feel that you don't deserve just a quick note for a reply. You deserve much more than that. I really regret that I could not thank you more often.

Thank you so much for reading! Please drop a review. Review and I will be immensely happy! And if authors are happy then readers will be happy! :)


	17. Chapter 17

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_{PROLOGUE}_

_Perhaps Touma Sachiko had grown numb. Perhaps she got tired of thinking ahead that she allowed that portrait to be hung in replacement for Yumi's lost painting. She just wanted to get a reaction from Yumi—anything, that would make them talk to each other. It was to remember the beautiful times they shared. But it backfired on her. When she saw Yumi's eyes grown wide and shed tears as she looked at the portrait, Sachiko thought that they still shared the same sentiments about the portrait's significance, but she was wrong. Instead, it revealed the pain of Sachiko's abandonment, like a coffin that resurfaced after it was long buried deep under a lake._

_What she thought wrongly was that Yumi still has her past self—her sympathy and compassion to hear Sachiko out, without taunting each other. Without the bitter sarcasm and degrading insults. Yumi was irreversible. It was gone—that assurance. She tried to extract Yumi's old self, by being persistent— talking to her, seeing her in Kyoto, calling her. But it did not work. She was unable to find a way to tell her that what she had done was inexplicable._

_She shivered._

_Perhaps she was becoming her grandfather, who was thrilled with his power games. She had viewed her life the way her grandfather would have seen it. To defeat him, she had to think like him, to act like him, to move like him. She just realized it now . . . that the game started even before her little acts of rebellion during high school, even before Yumi, and even afterwards._

_She realized that she had been playing her own set of chess pieces against his ever since she was able to enough to speak. All the while, she was playing his game in his own chessboard, the same goddamned rules, the same goddamned pieces._

_That realization came too late. She had been too involved. She had played every single piece. She had identified every pawn in her hands, used every rook, bishop, knight, her queen against his. She had been too engrossed to the game that she did not even realize that at some point in her life, she forgot about it. She forgot that she was moving according to a set of their rules. She forgot that she was the King of her own chess pieces._

_Every motivation—love, lust, desire, revenge, acceptance, ambition, repentance—was played according to Kyouichii's rules. Trust and betrayal were brought into a very sensitive scale. To gain is to lose, and to lose is to gain._

_And when she was too engrossed with the rules, too forgetful that she was in it, was the time that Yumi came into her life._

_And she realized that the game was still ongoing when she realized that the Ryu had been getting distant, further and further away from her grasp._

_Her whole life, Ogasawara Sachiko had been playing against Ogasawara Kyouichii._

_She shivered._

_She could not recognize herself anymore. She felt empty. She felt as if she was undeserving of anything. Unfit to love because she brought it to a scale. Unfit for atonement, for she brought it to a scale. She had been the King who became too engrossed with sacrificing everything and everyone just to win against her opponent. A King disregarding friendships, championing deceit, plotting betrayals._

_Hollow._

_When two red lines appeared before her, she knew._

_She had nothing worthy to give._

* * *

CHAPTER 17

* * *

_Present day_

Storming to the gallery's parking lot, Fukuzawa Yuuki played with his a lighter, opening and closing its metallic lid, feeling coldness and then warmth after flicking to induce the flint to spark. In deep frustration, he rested his back on the side of his car and debated to take the crumpled box of cigarettes in his pocket. It was getting cold and the darkness already enveloped the sky.

He just could not calm down after seeing Yumi once more after a long time. He could not believe her temper and cynicysm would get the best of him and lose his control. He knew their little reunion would not turn out well, especially because of the bad news—it should not have surprised him. Damn it, he was supposed to be the one to calm her down. Yet, he stormed out, completely defeated and tired of this. He knew he tried his best. He did everything to have it, yet all he dug up were just nuisance . . . things that are only related to the people surrounding Yumi, not her painting herself. The names Kinomoto, Touma and Ogasawara did not matter to the investigation . . . yet, why did he pursue it anyway?

Thus he found a scrunched up stick; he latched the filter by his lips . . .

"That is no good, Fukuzawa-san," a man said. "Cheap, even."

He prucured a box of Parliaments and offered Yuuki, but the latter just sighed defeatedly, "Thanks, that is cheap too." He removed the battered stick from his mouth.

The man gave a stick and shoved the box in his breast pocket. Yuuki lighted the cigarette stuck in his mouth. Taking a deep pull, Yuuki appreciated the quality of the stick that he never experienced in cheap ones. He puffed smoke to the air. "Ah, I forgot I quitted."

The man lighted his own, too. "So, it is true. The case was relieved from the investigation." He said.

Yuuki took a small drag. "Yes, it is."

"Is it really going nowhere?" He laughed at his own question.

Yuuki crumpled his own cheap box of cigarettes with his quick fist. "It's not like Yumi has been selling her stuff. Many would have wanted her works, but her stand was firm. She doesn't want to part with it. Other art enthusiasts think otherwise. Like you. You want her paintings, don't you?"

The man smirked. "Who doesn't?"

"Nihonga is a very small world, I hear this a lot. Who would have thought that she could make a name in this bleak industry in a span of four years? Two major exhibitions and endless commissions weren't enough for an art school graduate to jump too high from the bottom of the ladder. But she did. Because she reminds everyone of somebody. Of Kinomoto Hinata. Of Junko."

"Surprise." He said, listlessly.

"Junko's struggle to free herself in the society she lived in. Hinata's post-war paintings. Desolated future, unsure hope—a reminder of how war had cut off hopes like pig's limbs in slaughterhouses. Nothing but bunch of meat. She showed death and sorrow in meticulously prepared canvas of colors—something that nobody had done at that time, when everyone thought that war proved that everything you possessed meant nothing. War makes everyone's vision hazy and unfocused, you know." Yuuki irked on how he managed to explain that, sounding so trite.

"And?" he said, enjoying Yuuki's analysis.

"Yumi showed a different facet of contentment in the midst of grief-stricken, shrewd and pretentious society we have. Unlike how we see happiness or contentment. That one can live and thrive on the sorrow one inflicts to herself, and prove it magnanimous to others around her. Like hers. It's almost comical that you commissioned Yumi to restore works that conveys similar passion as Kinomotos."

The man smirked.

Yuuki continued. "That's why you are so attracted to her paintings. She was like the Kinomoto women and their saturated talent to blow the minds of men like us. Your obsession gave you away, sempai. That's why we have this meeting, because you want your part in the search. Correct?"

"You may say that."

"No. You are as curious as the rest of the world. And so far, she took a liking for you. You entertain her, it seems. Someone who is near, but distant."

"Are you praising me?"

"Did I sound like that? No. I don't trust you. I don't trust you ever since you came in as a witness for those Southeast Asian suspects."

"And tell me, how are they doing? I thought the investigation already stopped."

"Again, I don't trust you, Kashiwagi. You act as if you happen to passed by in every situation, making your involvement always considered accidental. You being witness, then being Yumi's employer. Later, I'd find out that you are Kinomoto Setsuna's son. And you just happened to be a friend of Ogasawara Sachiko's husband. Then, I'm hearing things like you being interested in the Ogasawara business. What are you, really?"

Kashiwagi's face showed pure enjoyment in hearing what Yuuki knew. He took a drag in his cigarette and explained. "But I trust you. Even though you have been skimming into my past. Was that even related to your investigation?"

Yuuki took the last pull from the cigarette, then crushed the butt with his shoe. "You have an inexplicable history."

"But not related to her missing painting." Kashiwagi did the same.

"You seemed to drag Yumi in such a way that I can't identify or comprehend."

Five parked cars away, a black sedan roared softly into life and pulled back from its space. Kashiwagi arranged his cuffs and straightened his necktie. He crooned, "And yet, like her, you took an interest for me. You sure are siblings."

"Tsk." Yuuki guessed that it was Kashiwagi's ride. How long has he been waiting here? It was almost an ambush. Even after all this time, he still could not predict Kashiwagi. "Why are you so happy with that idea? It seems so foreign to me that you're interested in my _sister_, without any glaring, suspicious intentions. Stay away from her."

He opened the passenger's seat by himself, his face somber as he crowed at Yuuki. "For your chagrin: no, I won't."

He closed the door and the car sped away.

* * *

Sachiko walked out of the museum slowly as any proper lady could refrain from haste.

She still felt sore at the palm of her right hand, ashamed of what she had done. She should have not slapped Yumi, no matter how hurtful she was. It was not because a _lady_ should not be bemused and rash of her actions; it was because Yumi was telling the truth, that a slap would not even make up for it. She failed in the past. She failed today.

Yet she learned just how her grandfather had been too involved in this. She did not know yet how to protect herself and others against his grandfather's eyes. He should not have done that. Could he not see that he already won before? He secured that she obeyed him years ago. He already won. Why could he not leave Yumi alone?

She watched her steps, wary of the high-heeled stilletos. She reminded herself that she needed to extract once more those low-heeled shoes from her well-stocked closet. She has to take care of herself more.

While descending upon the steps, she unconsciously put her palms on her lower torso, rubbing it slowly, feeling warmth.

The chauffeur immediately noticed her and quickly parked the black sedan and opened a door for the Ogasawara heiress. When Sachiko was situated comfortably by the backseat, he closed the door gently, and returned to the driver's seat. "Where to, Touma-sama?"

"To the Hasekura dojo, please."

As he drove away to the city roads, he noticed that her mistress looked more enervated than before and was frequently massaging her temples. Sachiko extracted a handkerchief and covered her mouth. The middle-aged chauffeur, who had served the Ogasawara princess ever since she became a part of the Touma household, decreased the speed of the car, minding his mistress' carsickness. Not satisfied with his efforts, he adjusted the AC.

His employer relaxed her shoulders and closed her eyes gently.

Sachiko's hand was still on her belly.

* * *

Family.

There was nothing foreign with the word that everyone around her seemed to know very well. At first, one would think first of childhood whenever such word was mentioned, usually at school, where the teacher would ask her students, _what is your family like? _Memories of pre-school activities would cascade: please draw a picture of your family; please draw what your parents do; please write what you and your family had done during the winter or summer break. Even though the student's talents talent for drawing differed—from the usage of crayons to the number of subjects drawn in the picture—one thing is the same.

Everyone was wearing happy faces.

Perhaps adults would not know the truth behind those drawn family portraits, or perhaps they won't, unless those children speak up. When those little students paste their work upon the corkboard-covered walls, what exactly were they trying to show? The real picture of their family, or their idealized perception of what should a family be?

Were children really telling the truth? Or were they telling the truth that they wanted?

Most students would draw their mom, dad and siblings (add a pet, if available) in their typical trope—holding hands, an apron for the mother, a neatly pressed shirt and tie for the father, and the like—against the background of a house. Some would even include a sea of green pasture and flowerbeds for the garden, and the number of cars they have.

Sachiko's picture was vivid. Just like her classmates, she incorporated everything that she considered family, things that she ought to do, to have, to be.

It was in a bedroom. A four-poster bed, a large piano, a desk. On the bed was Sachiko and Sayako; the latter was lying down upon the mother's lap. Upon the desk, Ogasawara Kyouichii was seated and Tooru was standing behind his father. No one was playing the piano. It was just there, yet seemed as important as the bed and the desk.

Was the picture Sachiko's ideal perception of a family or was it the truth?

* * *

The car stopped gently as Sachiko woke up from her dream.

It was cold when she was already at the doorstep of the Hasekura house. Seconds after ringing the doorbell, she heard hurried footsteps and Rei appeared before her. Sachiko gave a broader smile—a smile that only few had seen—saying that Rei should not worry. The taller woman knew that something happened, and quickly closed the door to let Sachiko into the house. When she hugged Sachiko, she shivered from the cold that enveloped the heiress' skin.

"I want to live for him now." She finally said, after she told what happened at the gallery.

Sachiko's smile was perhaps the loneliest Rei had seen so far, yet she contained her immediate impulse to gather her hands with hers as any friend or mother would. Sachiko came to her for a reason; there was no one she could turn to confront her feelings, or even to take advice. At some point, she wondered why Sachiko would forget her onee-sama, Mizuno Youko. Had Sachiko even been talking to her, Rei often wondered.

It was not as if Youko was not around; she was present in ways that even Rei could not comprehend. She was different from Eriko Onee-san. Perhaps Sachiko did not want to bother her grande soeur? No, Rei witnessed how Youko apprehended Sachiko into saying her problems . . . of reaching out to those who care. Yet, why did Rei get the feeling that Sachiko was utterly alone?

Was the bond of those beautiful memories of youth had gone so quickly that boundaries of youth and adulthood had become too defined? No one could even joke about the past anymore.

"Am I the first one who heard about this?" Rei asked, timidly satisfied with herself.

Sachiko replied after a long pause. "Yes."

She suggested that they should open the paper slide doors, exposing the garden to their eyes. She found the air not cold. "I suppose you never talk to Youko-san about this—about everything."

"I don't want to impose her kindness. I don't want her to worry, to think too much."

Rei looked at her and held her hand. "You couldn't tell her because you don't want to look bad. You kept your feelings quite well, Sachiko, that even Youko couldn't notice them anymore."

Sachiko removed her hand. "I don't know what to say to her. The way I live . . . I can't face her when she taught me much. I don't want her to see that I couldn't follow her anymore."

"That's not true. Not when you want to move forward." Rei smiled at Sachiko, sealing her words genuinely.

"Forward . . . I've tried hard to find that way. I can't find myself burning bridges, not when it comes to my family."

Rei asked, "How about Ryu?"

* * *

Secluded yet transparent to the world. The family of the Ogasawara is small in number, unlike four generations ago. In the turn of the twentieth century the family had rose from the ashes of its past, and was rebuilt by a son from a branch family. Then this pioneer had a son who had ambitions soaring higher beyond imaginable and redeemed the family beyond its dreams. It erased lamentable past; it created glorious history.

Sayako knew the Ogasawara history as much as Tooru had known, because the latter had been enthusiastic to tell her the family legacy. Tooru lit up when he talked about his grandfather's struggle to rise into success. Sayako would admire how much he had known and would commit into memory that both should tell those stories to their unborn child, the future heir. During their long walks upon the garden of the Ogasawara estate, she asked Tooru if his father told him those stories.

Tooru had a pained smile. He admitted to Sayako that his father were far more passionate in telling them. Whenever Kyouichii spoke about the first patriarch, his face smeared with hostility. Particularly when he talked about his father's siblings or the former main family. As much as Kyouichii put his father upon an unbelievably tall pedestal was as much as Kyouichii would deeply dig a hole for his father's relatives with a shovel.

For Tooru, his father was beyond perfection. And he could not even match him, although he is his son.

When Sachiko was old enough, and when Tooru was nowhere to be found, Sayako was the one who took the time telling her stories about Kyouichii and his father's legacy. Of how Sachiko's great-grandfather rose from the ashes and soared high. Sayako would later not tell depressing details about the former main family. She did not want Sachiko to keep resentment against those who committed wrongly against Kyouichii's father. It was better if Sachiko would spread her wings without fueling anger in her heart.

Yet, Kyouichii intended to instill them, and Sachiko learned the burden of being an Ogasawara as soon as she started to walk. Sayako's efforts to shield her daughter were almost futile, but she taught her a lesson that she hoped Sachiko would never forget. Seeing without looking; hearing without listening; grieving without crying.

It is required for Sachiko to live her life fully even though the people—her flesh and blood—who surrounded her were beyond disappointment. Her family only concerned about maintaining its uplifted heritage. Sachiko was taught to endure, and to love amidst their shortcomings. That was Sayako's legacy. That was her way to show devotion to the family she belonged.

But she was never taught to fight back.

* * *

"I will tell him. I have been wasting my time not telling him." Sachiko replied serenely, gazing at the stretched hand cupping her lower stomach. She smiled as she rubbed it, but frowned at the third stroke.

Rei lifted her hand and touched her friend's head, ruffling black hair. Rei could not keep her pained smile as she noticed the frown on Sachiko's lips, for she knew the reasons for it. But she kept her mouth shut. She would not dare open such the issue under any circumstance, for it made her afraid for Sachiko.

Sachiko ignored the mess, and kept on relinquishing onto fixing it. Rei's hand was warm and reassuring. "Mother would be very proud of me," she said. "She always said that Father had his most beautiful smile when he saw us on the bed after she gave birth to me. Those months were very difficult for her. He said that he was thankful that both of us were there."

Sachiko looked away, "If Father had said it, then I would not believe it. But Mother did."

When tea was already consumed and she was staying more than she should, Sachiko bid goodbye to her friend with renewed smile. "Please take care of yourself." Rei said desperately, holding Sachiko's hand with both her own.

Burning bridges.

Sachiko was seeking Yumi's forgiveness because she wanted to start her life without the burden of leaving behind (what she thought) the person she considered to love the most. Until she throws it, she couldn't love him with all her heart.

There was no reason to approach Yumi back then. Sachiko had no valid reason to seek her; she was the one who walked away. She was numbed that she thought she could never love anyone as much as she loved Yumi—but Ryu somehow have done that. Sachiko wanted to love Ryu, but she could not forget what she had done to Yumi.

Fearing that she'll do the same to him.

But she was turning him away, ever since then.

She did not want to, not anymore. He must have suffered more in this relationship than did. She knew it, yet she continued.

Fearing that he would misunderstand.

Yet, she never tried. She never tried to beat that fear. She did not know the extent of destruction she had done to Yumi, the reason she was failing to understand her. She wanted to make things right but her current efforts were not enough.

She can wait. No . . . no . . .

Yet the truth was that she cannot. The moment she realized it she already learned to love Ryu. Then she began to fear being deserted. Just like how she was with Yumi. Therefore, when her grandfather pushed her to the corner, she took away her chances and tore herself away from Yumi. She ran away from her fear of abandonment by abandoning Yumi.

She was not thoroughly honest, afraid that her fear would be known.

She should have changed that. Yet, how would Yumi see that? No. No.

Yumi took those memories as hostage, she would hold onto it, and meant not willing to resolve anything. She thought wrong of Yumi; she thought wrong of herself. Just like everyone, her extent to forgive others is as finite as the rest. Because Yumi is normal too. She can hate whatever she wants.

Just like Sachiko could hate whomever she wanted—even her own family.

Family . . . she could have found one with Yumi, but she took it for granted. _No, she made a choice. _When she married Ryu, she never considered it a family—because _back then_, not even Ryu's kindness could even match how she pictured her life with Yumi. That he was just an extension of Kyouichii's manipulation. And of hers too. Yet, even with that picture-perfect life she had envisioned for Yumi and her, it was not enough to leave the family. Her hatred did not even help.

_What is in this godforsaken family that made me choose this?!_

She asked herself a very long time ago.

_Mother . . . Mother always asked the difference . . . Seeing from looking, listening from hearing, grieving from crying. . . ._

Mother.

_Mother, I am doing things wrongly, am I not? I am thinking the wrong way, am I not? I am seeing the wrong direction. I am hearing the wrong things. I am crying for the wrong reasons._

_Should I apply those words to Ryu? Where and how should I use those words, Mother?_

She asked herself the reasons that made her blind, unfeeling. Was it because she saw Yumi never the same as before? Yes, that might be true. That leaving Yumi caused irreversible damage to a girl so cheerful and hopeful. Always, Sachiko would turn away.

But Ryu . . . Ryu did not deserve this. Ryu should not be tangled with her insecurities. But she can still make up for it. _She can. _His devotion for her, she could see it perfectly, but she chose not to look. She could hear his words but she did not listen. No. She should have both hear and listen, see and look, and even grieve and cry. With him.

She has to try.

_Ryu, I have you, all this time. Even though I have been so far away from you. Let me make up for those years that I have left you alone, even though I swore that I would hold your hand. Let me tell you that I will see you, I will hear you. Let me tell you that I will make it up to you. Let me tell you that I am determined to survive with you._

_Let me tell you about our child. _

* * *

From her office, she called the Touma mansion's phone.

Ryu was not yet home as she expected. She began to fret of how she'd tell Ryu—she was scared.

Scared like her mother once was.

The phone rang. She answered it within the second ring, and she found her husband's voice surrounded by faint statics. He was very distant—the way she said her name was ominous that she was stiffened—he never sounded like that before.

/ I have a proposition for you. Do you trust me? /

Sachiko's tone was brittle, "Ryu? Is something wrong?"

He asked her again of the same question. She truthfully affirmed. Whatever that was happening to Ryu at this moment was putting weight in her chest. When she asked when would he be home, he said, "No, I won't be. Not until the meeting of the board is finished. This is also the reason that I called."

"Do you remember the first time you told me that you want to take-over your grandfather before you reach thirty? Back then, when I decided to join the Ogasawara Group? You were very adamant in settling dibs, boasting that you'll be the company's highest ranking officer and not me? . . ."

Sachiko was barraged with questions of a vivid memory. It was the day, she found him in her grandfather's office. "Yes. I remember."

/ I was so astonished of how passionate you were in declaring those things to me. I was fascinated by you. /

Sachiko tried to stop his words but she herself was interrupted.

/ But before you say anything, let me just clear the entire situation. Someone was planning to have his control over the company. We all know that Oji-sama, Kyouichii, was facing problems with his management over the company for years now. We have struggled and survived thus far, but it seemed we cannot move forward when someone was stagnating in the growth of the company. The board was losing its trust to Kyouichii-sama. /

She sighed as she agreed with her husband. "That is old news. The last meeting was about that. The votes that will be garnered in the next meeting will be just the same. Grandfather will surely had anticipated their moves."

But Ryu's voice became worried, a little broken, as if he was hanging on to every word. It was not a good sign, coming from an even-tempered person like him.

/ I-I know, dear. But they are planning to oust him. And replace him with—what they said—with a much suitable substitute. They were decided that the new member of the board, Kashiwagi Suguru, should take the torch. /

* * *

Kyouichii never anticipated that day that Kashiwagi Suguru was at his office door, looming over the vastness of the room, while a half-smile was plastered in his face. In his private search for that man's weakness, he never thought that an aloof, stoic man (as was reported to him) would be loitering to his domain with ease on his face. Oh, he knew what the brat was exactly doing.

Kyouichii retained his domineering voice, "You have the nerve to parade yourself in my office uninvited."

Kashiwagi remained at the door. "I have. But you did not even respond to my letter. The green one that I gave to your dog, Murata-san?"

He produced the opened letter by his hand. "The letter you handed me was strange indeed. But you are mistaken if it should be sent to me. You see, if I haven't taken a liking for you, I would destroy that junk into ashes, instead of opening it."

Kyouichii was tempted to throw the letter to the floor, but could he even do that? Could he disgrace the only object that Setsuna had given him?

Kashiwagi seemed not to notice his sudden hesitation. "Shit. Really? I was expecting that you'll burn it on sight. But I was wrong. The brushwork seems familiar, doesn't it?"

* * *

Sachiko trembled. She remembered Kashiwagi's piercing look back at the party, when she first saw him. She murmured, "He will not . . . he won't. I—we won't allow that! How—?!"

/ Sachiko, listen. I will take care of it. Everything. That bastard; I should have known he'd be a problem. But I have secured that we will not be overtaken and governed by an outsider—a person not member of this family. This is _our_ lifeline and I will not let anyone take that away from you. But the board wanted to change its leader. And we will give them a far better candidate. I want you to take that place. I want you to steal that torch away from Kyouichii. /

_No . . . no . . . I am not ready. It's not my dream anymore. My child—!_

But, how did Ryu figured that his former classmate was doing that? Didn't he just tell her one time that Kashiwagi was Ryu's best friend? "No, I cannot do that. I cannot!"

* * *

Kyouichii tapped his immaculate fingers against the hardwood of his table. "What do you want?"

Kashiwagi stayed standing at the door. "I'm here to give you a warning. You should probably know my intentions: I came here for war. You will witness your empire be minced into little pieces."

"You have become quite famous around. Luck is in your side while you established yourself in Kyoto and Osaka. Now, in Tokyo. You're just a transient in this formidable place. A nuisance to me. What makes you think you can overpower someone above your station?"

"It's not only me, actually. Many want you gone, Ogasawara, and I am one of them." Kashiwagi said.

"You are still young, son, to display arrogance in front of an experienced senior."

His voice gave no amusement. "Yet young enough to say that you are getting incompetent and senile."

* * *

/ I was hoping you would approve. All I wanted is to fulfill your dreams. To get you whatever you want. Now, this is your chance. I have acted beforehand, I know; I kept it from you. /

"No, Ryu, I cannot run the company this time—!"

/ Yes, you can. You are the only one qualified. You are the most deserving; you have been trained to do this. Not even I could surpass you. You can finally defeat your grandfather. Only you can match him. I have arranged for everything. Every move, every situation, I have anticipated all of them. Like my queen, you'll just have to sit on the throne. What can I do for you to say yes? /

_Ryu, what are you . . . ? This is not the right method or time to have this. My child . . . the company is no longer my main concern. Our child is the most important!_

/ I have _The Passing Wind_. /

* * *

"Show some respect!"

Kashiwagi beamed, a smile enough scare crows. "Finally, a hasty reaction from you. You probably know everything that is to happen in three days time. Let's see if I can match your kung-fu. After all, it would be just power-play. Something that you've mastered. And it will be in your backyard."

"You will regret that you have stepped foot here. Or live until this day." Kyouichii matched his expression. "You will regret using Kinomoto Setsun's memory for your immature ambitions."

The room went cold at the mention of the name. "No. You will regret ever stepping into the life of Kinomoto Setsuna."

"Kashiwagi-_kun_, you stepped out your line." Emphasizing the honorific as degrading as he could muster.

He walked away from the office. That was enough to know that Kashiwagi abandoned his respect for him completely.

* * *

Sachiko stopped all thoughts running through her head when he mentioned it.

She could not even trace a bit of familiarity in his voice; it was too rough:

/ I finally found it. You wanted Fukuzawa Yumi's forgiveness, am I correct? Ever since it was lost, you have been acting strangely. You took great lengths to be near her, to be close to her. Which is very unusual, because you were seours, correct? How could those bonds be so fragile that you have to gain her trust once more? I've noticed it, Sachiko, how in pain you are. Yet I am sad, for you never told me. /

"Ryu, hand over the painting to her." Sachiko said, fearing that it was already a trap. That no matter how patient her husband was, nothing in this world is infinite. "Please."

His voice became agitated:

/ It is one thing that will make you agree with me, isn't it? /

"Ryu listen to me!"

But Ryu carried on:

/ If you are worried over your grandfather—but should you be? He gave you nothing but a leash to tie your neck upon a post. He never gave you what you really needed. But I'll try. The board meeting will be in three days. You will have time to think about it. All is in motion. All you have to do is to take it. Say yes, Sachiko. Afterwards, it will be easy. You have me. /

"Ryu I—"

The line went dead.

* * *

". . . don't need those things anymore." She whispered, finishing what she ought to say against the statics.

* * *

She walked brusquely towards the elevator, hoping to reach his grandfather's office. She knew that nothing good would come out in this unplanned meeting—but she had to know, in cautious ways, how bad things are going. She was perceptive to things like this before, yet why did she know this now? She knew Kyouichii's allies in the board—all of them—but trust is an unstable virtue. For once, she agreed with her grandfather. She was in the floor of Kyouichii's office when she saw its doors opened.

Her mind was swift; but her body was shocked, she could not move.

She saw Kashiwagi Suguru closed the doors with a smug look on his face. It diminished when he saw Sachiko, and procured a blank face. He walked his way to the elevator, and bowed lightly to her. "Touma-san."

When she turned back, he was already in the compartment; his eyes boring at her. She glared at him with pure contempt.

_How dare he—?!_

Then, just before the doors of the elevators fully shut, he smiled faintly at her.

_Then, it's true._

* * *

Kyouichii laughed sinisterly at Kashiwagi's audacity to bring him into excitement like this. Challenging him head-on—it was the old times, back when he was extremely obsessed with working what his father had started. It has been too long since he was confronted with a gambit.

Surely, someone backs Kashiwagi's bravery. Yes . . . finally someone has been a mole in this whole fiasco—three days was enough to identify allies and reduce foes. Ever since he received that green letter, he knew what Kashiwagi wanted. He wanted Kyouichii to be taunted. How Kashiwagi had acquired that letter was still a mystery to Kyouichii . . . but no matter. What _matters_ is Kashiwagi's downfall.

* * *

What he did not notice in the file Murata sent to him a long time ago was the information that Kashiwagi Suguru was adopted. That he was her son.

* * *

Kashiwagi pulled out his cellular phone from his pocket as the elevator descended. He pushed several buttons until his phone emitted a buzzing, then a ringing sound. He put it at the side of his face, still waiting for an answer.

/ Kashiwagi-sama. How has it been? /

His head was aching, but he found his balance. "Fine. No—very amused. I am beginning to get used to Kyouichii's revenge faces."

/ So, it has been set. Three days to go, but many things can happen. /

He looked upwards, beginning to like the idea that Kyouichii was watching him secretly—by the security cam somewhere in the compartment. He smirked. "I know. We made our move, and I am confident that I secured everything. Betrayal is slim—but in my case: if someone would not meet their end of agreement, then someone will be just another body in the gutter. Nothing will change."

/ Damn. That is surely violent. /

He heard a distant hearty laugh though the speakers. The person on the line transferred the phone to another. The laughter's volume grew louder.

He said to the new voice, "I'm joking, I forgot myself. I meant no harm. What I mean is that Kyouichii's methods will never win against mine. Even _I_ have high standards. Well, what about at your end?"

/ Still waiting for the final call. We will decide tomorrow. /

"I think Touma Sachiko already has an answer."

/ Oh? /

The elevator doors opened; Kashiwagi strolled away from the compartment and left heads turning to his direction.

(So, the news seemed to spread pretty fast.)

Kashiwagi tried not to mind the attention; he just kept talking until he reached the front doors of the Ogasawara Group. "Just saw her a moment ago, almost stomping the hall in a hurry. She's a little pale though."

/ Is she all right? /

He suddenly expelled words carefully, hoping to be as calm as possible. "I think so. She needs to eat more. I see a clear path ahead for you. But, do you think she'll spill?"

/ No, I don't think so. She has this . . . passionate discord with her grandfather more than anyone does. She wants that position ever since. And that is what the Chairman doesn't like: to give up the position prematurely. He thinks he can live forever. /

"Even so, it doesn't matter."

As Kashiwagi's car approached his direction, he heard that the second voice gave back the phone to the first man he talked to.

/ He said he trust your fearsome schemes. You even took the time for chitchat. / He was referring to the second man.

Kashiwagi greeted, "I'll be seeing you and him, Kobayashi-san. Good luck."

/ Likewise. /

* * *

_{AFTERMATH}_

Yumi forgotten that she had her phone in her back pocket until it began ringing and vibrating against her behind. She stopped listening to what her former schoolmate was saying and excused herself and mouthed against the mouthpiece, "Yep, it's you, Suguru-san."

/ What do you know, you recognize my voice. /

"What's it?" She asked, hiding her irritation.

/ When I told you I'll won't let Ogasawara Kyouichii bother you anymore, did you believe me? /

". . ."

/ Yumi. /

". . . I didn't."

/ He won't. /

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**A/N:** Please, please, _please_ tell me what you think!

Forgive me for having no knowledge in certain areas, and if you notice them, I beg you to advice me via PM. And to those who were using _Guest_ to comment, I couldn't reply to you guys and haven't thanked you enough. To those who sent their comments and PM on Chapter 16, I thank you _immensely _for sharing your thoughts. It had been a month since I updated, and I'd like to make an excuse . . . no, I rather not.

I'll be on my way now, and read other Marimite fanfics written by other awesome authors here in Marimite. This fandom has little fanbase, so keep supporting by reading and reviewing fanfics!


	18. Chapter 18

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

{PROLOGUE}

_He realized that he became too _tired_. Too _tired_ to respond to what he observed. He got _tired_ to care that he was used. Perhaps, this was because he became too curious. It was probably one of the reasons he fell in love with her. At the time he found that she was more than her lonely, distant smile and her deathly glare. Two facial expressions of a person living between worlds, jumping one at a time. When he first heard of her, he thought she was just like the rest of those rich debutantes . . . he was getting sick of conquest after conquest after conquest. _

_He admitted to himself that when he fell in love with her, that he had forgotten how static and flat he was. He had forgotten how he deceived himself and others until his lies became truths. Yes, he was very smitten by Ogasawara Sachiko and her uniqueness from the rest of her status. _

_Perhaps his immediate curiosity for her grew into far complications or into love. He could identify what it was—he saw it with his parents—yet he could not feel it for himself. He found himself too undeserving for that, unlike them. It was more than butterflies in his stomach, more than his heightened perception to her physical beauty. When she looked at him with her lukewarm presence at that ball, she immediately weighed his use for her._

_She immediately knew his place in her chessboard._

_It was simple: given with the way he had acted before, she assumed a persona appropriate in handling him, as sure evaluation to present herself. First, she seemed to extract his preferences by gauging their conversations. He allowed her, since he liked talking about himself. There was nothing he could hide, and as far as he's discerned, he was harmless enough. Nothing in him was to be afraid of._

_Because he's nice, even to debutantes that had been in his bed. He was never the deceiving bastard. He never hid that he had been with other women before, never denied that he wanted them for a night, and these girls somehow liked that about him. Him being truthful, knowledgeable, the one who leads. He never gossiped about them, or bragged his spoils to his friends. Those girls trusted him, for secret affairs are meant to be just secrets. Never disclose what had happened in the bed, sex or otherwise. He never left them with their egos shattered or desire unfulfilled. They were satisfied with just what he gave._

_As far as clichés go, of course, Sachiko was different. _

_Yet, what he was surprised of was her inability to even gauge that they're similar. She knew he wanted to know everything about her—and blatantly admitted to that, but what she did not know was that both of them were reading each other's motivations._

_Similar, that's what they are. Men surrounds her like piranhas on fresh, bloody meat, but one thing is sure—she found ways for men never to touch her. Even the freakiest chaps in high society, infamous for the number of women they bed in a week, could not even hold a candle to her. They were satisfied with just her faint smile or distant glance. Somehow touching her was downright criminal and deadly._

_Just like how women were with him. Satisfied with his attention, no matter how short and conditional it may be._

_But that was a long time ago. Back when he was still young and bored. And tired._

_He knew that he had invested too much of his emotion and affection to her that it would kill him eventually. Even in long years he had been with her. Unlike before, he did not have any insurance; in fact, he was in a position that would eventually diminish him into no one. Sachiko will never forgive him, even if he gave Fukuzawa's painting to her. _

_He swore that she's the only woman who was never satisfied of what he could provide, even his love, no matter how hard he tried. _

* * *

CHAPTER 18:

* * *

_Present night_

Yuuki called Touko to get to the museum the moment Kashiwagi sped away from the vicinity. Even though he did not approve of anything Yumi had been doing lately, he had no other choice but to tolerate her. She is his sister, no matter how idiotic she was in his eyes. Kashiwagi's involvement—no, interest to her sister was like a dormant virus; it will only attack when the host is at its weakest state. He had known him in highschool, had shared thoughts and opinions with him, and even anticipated his actions before. All crude work, no paperwork. He didn't like to be in meetings. He didn't like complex planning. He was simple-minded.

He was different now. Just ten years of separation, he didn't know his sempai anymore. Had he met Yumi back in highschool? If he did, did he realize that Yukichi's sister would be in the middle of a mess?

. . . middle of a mess?

What was Kashiwagi had been doing lately? What was Touma Ryu had been doing lately? Ogasawara Kyouiichi . . . ?

He was driving his car when he popped his cellphone from his pocket and dialed: "Shimazu-san?"

/ What the hell is it. /

He felt her anger and frustration from the raspy voice on the static background. He asked, "What do you think is happening within the Ogasawara Group? You have contact with _her_, right?"

/ Agh . . . Ogasawara Group? Shit, shit . . . /

"Stop swearing."

/ Can I just talk to you tomorrow? I have a killing headache, and your voice just made it harsher like an old bitch. /

He heard her slurring her words, but when she compared his voice to something less endearing, she pronounced every Japanese syllable as if she were reciting an angry poem. It's not good at all, when he heard gulping noices afterwards.

"Are you drinking?" He asked nicely as he could possibly do.

/ You're worse than a nagging mother. /

"I'm sorry. I'll call you later."

_Holy Mother of God_. He just could not handle women with short fuses. And drunk, angry women.

Wait, didn't he left Yumi to Yoshino in the gallery? Why was she drinking? Where's Yumi? Was she with her? Damn it. Too late; he did not ask. What if Touko did not meet Yumi? Crap, she's gonna be pissed at him.

He couldn't call the headquarters for information—they just closed the investigation, which enraged Yumi to the point that he had lost his cool too. Company employees won't just hand over informations about their employers, that was an important part of the job, and etiquette demanded it. He couldn't just ask the _employers._ He had no reason to.

Employee of the Ogasawara . . . Kobayashi Masamune. That four-eyes who he met months ago in front of Yumi's painting _Distance _is an employee of the company. What was he doing in the gallery anyway? That man, to whom was he employed under? Kyouiichi? Ryu? Sachiko? He did not know a thing about his employment. Was he even close to those in the highest positions? He had to try. He must know something that involved those three people.

He looked at his phone as he wished he had his former clasmate's number had been registered in his phonebook when car were honking at him that he immediately looked at the road ahead and kicked to stop.

Japanese drivers are courteous, but not when the car beside him was pricier than all his paychecks ever since he became a functional part of society. A young man popped his head out and gave him the finger, shouting curses as if he were hearing Yumi herself. As a policeman, he was torn between putting a warning light above his hood or to remain calm; he wouldn't be a good example if he put arrogance over reason.

He sighed as he stopped by the traffic light ahead of him. He should not be thinking about that shit of an investigation. No, not tonight. He intended to sleep tonight. With the building pain in his head, he just wanted to sleep this through. Tomorrow . . . tomorrow, he will be fine again.

* * *

In the darkness of the hotel room, the Touma Ryu had been standing in front of an illuminated wall. Only the incandescent lamp hanging above the ceiling focused its light to the only object hanging by it. He stood there while he held his cellular phone.

At the back, Kobayashi was watching him in silence. He was holding a large leather attache case, its size as large as the perimeter of the painting in front of Ryu.

"She's revolting, isn't she, Kobayashi?"

"It was an old friend's work, Touma-san. Of course, it is unusual for my untrained eyes." He took a step near his senior and handed him the case. "Sir, Kashiwagi-san sent this. He insisted that I tell you that _this—_" Kobayashi raised it to Ryu's arm's reach, "—is his greatest achievement. He hoped you'll take good care of it."

Ryu looked away from the painting and then to the black leather case.

"Tell him: what a talented bastard he is."

But he accepted the case anyway.

* * *

_Five years ago_

Yumi remained in Kyoto for a year to continue her thesis and senior-year project for as long as she could allow. There was no point of being in Musashino—in Lillian—if she felt that she could not settle her feelings after Sachiko cut her off. It was a bitter ending, yet she must get through with life. No matter how difficult it might be without Sachiko.

But she couldn't, not when she was used to think about her all the time.

Work and studying was as pressuring as ever, but she found console on that. She wanted to be as near to work as possible; somehow, it was giving her piece of mind instead of stress. Doing nothing made her mind wander and without her knowing, she was becoming hysterical because of loneliness. Many times, she had found herself more honest with her feelings, more open to express anger than before. There were times that she would just shout and cuss words like an angry boil oozing yellow puss along tender skin, but she did not care. It was a bit of exciting to see other people in wonderment that she could actually _get angry._ There was a time that she had scolded a kohai for being such a nuisance to her, that words just flowed out of her mouth—she never expressed frustration so poetically as she could possibly create.

At first, she immediately recoiled and took great lengths to appeal pardon for the things she had said. Yet, her first try in hurting someone with words made the second and the third and the fourth easier to do. At first, she immediately and meekly apologized. At second, she took a step back, evaluated what she had said, and when she realized she said too much, she asked for forgiveness.

At third, she looked at the person and realized how stupid it was to apologize, but that person had too frail a heart to accept scolding; thus she, later, reluctantly apologized.

At fourth, the person was such an asshole to even reconsider her own argument, that when she rebuked the person and later hitting him with words below the belt, she find herself happy not to swallow what she said and not to apologize for being such an arrogant bitch who pointed out flaws not even related to what they were fighting about.

It felt so good not to give a fuck.

Somehow, she liked the way she changed. She liked seeing others get hurt because of her.

Yet, when she was alone, she felt herself unexpectedly calm, and then memories of Sachiko would flash once more in her eyes. Those were the nights when she had nothing else to do but stare at her accomplished tasks, finished paintings, and written reports. Becoming so efficiently goal-oriented was becoming a nuisance during lonely, lazy nights.

Sachiko must be happily married now.

She felt she was becoming crazy of being so pathetic at times that she had nothing else to do. She couldn't fuck around. She couldn't handle liquor—she felt so sick she wanted to cut her throat so that she would not feel numb on her head and face. She could not immerse into smoking—she couldn't stand dying with her lungs busted. Somehow, all things that chronically kill people were all unattractive to indulge on. She did not want to die unattractive.

She settled on paint. Well, anyone can be killed eventually when you're surrounded with expensive turpentine, knowing the fact that her art materials contained dangerous, flammable aerosols. The more expensive, the more chemically hazardous they were. She settled for that; at least she liked the smell.

Her professor and thesis adviser, however, was a different story. Somehow, he was always there, atypical to other professors who just leave their advisees to themselves to fuck their manuscripts and later scold them for doing such bad products. He was very involved. He was immersed into her work that he was the only person she could talk to about _it._ The thing that made her forgot the past, Musashino, Lillian U and Sachiko. She was always in his large workshop, working hours and hours for her senior-level exhibit, and for her thesis. He was there to introduce her to famous curators and monks of the Buddhist and Shintoist temples so that she could gather literatures easily. He was there to counter or support an opinion. He was there when she was getting bored. He was there even when she doesn't give a fuck.

He was in his early thirties when he bacame one of her advisers, and somehow, he was still in touch and within the grid of Yumi's generation that she could still feel the vitality of his youth and his scholastic enthusiasm, not just in his focus in Nihonga, but also in daily life.

His name was Hinomura Takuya.

For Yumi, who was reluctant to disrespect her teachers by calling them in first-name basis, was forced by her thesis adviser to call him "Takuya-san". He was single; a silent man when dealing with students outside the lecture hall, but when he teached, all were sucked into his stimulating energy that his lectures deserved thorough documentations. University professors may be the best among their fields, but sucked mortifyingly in the methods of teaching. He was excellent in both.

He was well-liked and popular, yet he was known to be so reserved.

Yumi was the only exception to his charms.

Maybe because even with deep admiration for the professor's capabilities, he was irritating to the point that Yumi wished him hell. He liked to point things out; he did not tolerate mediocrity; he did not like silent students, which Yumi was. Yumi, in the middle of forgetting Sachiko by being so aloof and perpetually uncomfortable with everyone, was beginning to hate her meetings with an overly scolding adviser, who only wanted to tear her thesis proposal with a red-blotting fountain pen.

It's not that he wasn't helping with her work, he wasn't helping with her mood.

One day, Yumi was to submit a draft when she was left in his office. His table had tall stacks of documents that a tiny push could tumble them all down. His walls were covered with Nihonga; the wall was fully occupied with paintings posted in random assignment. At the back of his office desk was a shelf full of books, unsorted. Some were dusted and in immaculate condition; some were almost torn because they were frenquently used.

What made them talked to each other, aside from the draft that she was to submit and he was to paint with his red pen for, was a biographical book. He had it in good condition even though the book's spine (and its parallel lines) certainly depicted repeated usage. She looked at him in with insolent eyes when he found her surprised to read a book in his office without permission, even though she was caught in the act. She was even hesitant to apologize, and was about to say something ("It's not my fault that book is good,") when Professor Hinomura smiled and said, "He's a genius, isn't he?"

At first, she was reluctant to agree. But when he started to talk, she could not help but agree with him. It was a weird experience.

It was also the start for them to know that they actually shared the same interests.

Somehow, Yumi started to realize that her professor was more of a fascinating moving picture than a nuisance to her academic accomplishments. It must be his thorough knowledge on the subject she was studying, that she was always met with his challenges. He made her think like a true scholar, not just a painter. He made her holistic. It must also be his definite and clear distinction of their student-teacher relationship—he was able to be close to her without caring for her personal life. She appreciated that she was not obligated nor encouraged to talk anything other than work and her undergraduate thesis. Yet some time in the year that they spent together in her work, that line blured somehow.

Maybe it was in those times that both of them were alone in his workroom, and the air was quiet because she was halfway finishing a painting for her exhibition while he was quiet because he had been reviewing the draft she revised so many times. In the midst of the turpentine-saturated air, she was able to show signs of fatigue by groaning violently and Takuya would hand her a cup of black coffee and a loaf of bread. At first, she would reject the handed treats, but he would say, "Who could ever deny oneself good coffee?" and he was right.

Or a time when she would storm into his paper-cluttered office and complain to her professor, "This is bullshit; how could this paragraph be _insufficient_? It is the most important paragraph I've written in this section!" Then he would tell her that he forgotten to write his notes for that said paragraph. He would laugh at the way she bursted the bubble of his boring afternoon and thanked her for doing that. She would later realized that she no longer felt awkward whenever he was around. That she could be herself whenever she was with him.

He brought guidance, which she appreciated so much.

Somewhere between finishing all her works for her senior-level exhibition and thesis and going back to Musashino, she felt that she doesn't want to go back to Lillian anymore. Part of it was her fear of seeing Sachiko and another was leaving Takuya, whose company she actually enjoyed. Once her final semester ended, so was her stay in Kyoto. She had few friends here, yet she felt that it was what she wanted. Her friends back at Musashino will only make her think of Sachiko once more, and she did not want that. She did not want to dwell on the past again because even with time, it was still hurtful. Perhaps more time would ease it, not just a year.

When she thought of leaving Kyoto, she immediately thought of Takuya.

He made her forget about her. Even though she felt guilty that she might just be using him, her feelings for him did not spring from her needs to get over _her_. When he came around, she forgot Sachiko. She never saw her time with him as a waste. She came closer in her own volition, without Sachiko in mind. Was it a justifiable, valid reason?

She was reluctant to say goodbye. She was even afraid to go to his office, unlike before when she walked in and out of the room whenever she liked. She stayed when she felt alone. She stayed when she had tons of work to do. She stayed when she needed assistance on major subject whose teacher was being such a selfish bitch in giving grades. She stayed when she just needed someone to talk to. And he was always there, alone in his workroom, doing the things he loved.

The unresolved sexual tension built for months was resolved on the last week that she was in Kyoto. She already had her things secured in bags in her small apartment. All she needed to do was to say goodbye and thanked him for the wonderful year. Yet somewhere between her reluctance to show her dread of leaving and her smug joke that she was very happy to leave his ass, Takuya closed the office door behind her and kissed Yumi hungrily.

Two days later, she went back to Musashino only for the College of Fine Arts and Achitechture's Senior Level Exhibition and for her second thesis defence in front of Lillian U's, only to have her stay until graduation. She did not mind telling her brother that she was already in town, nor her petite seour, who was his girlfriend. Seeing them would only impose to their kindness. And she doesn't want to see them, only to remember that Yuuki _knew_ and Touko _knew_. They were few of the people who knew about Yumi and Sachiko's former relationship. She did not want questions thrown at her . . . she just want peace.

And she thought she found it in Kyoto. She silently mused to herself that she could be better than before, better than before Sachiko came along, and better even after she left. Two days of being with him, their love consumated so many times was not enough for Yumi. She felt that she was her old self again. Diminished were her bitter thoughts. She embraced Takuya with all strength and love she could give, and Takuya was the same. Two days was too short, and then she was to leave Kyoto. Those made Yumi not leave him with the little time they had to enjoy each other. She stayed with him. And when she was about to leave Kyoto, he promised her the same things Sachiko had. But Yumi did not even thought of her. With Takuya, she knew she liked the idea of starting over.

Several months later, he was the last person in her mind who would betray her trust.

* * *

_Present Night_

There was no use in destroying things in her workroom. Even in anger, she must restrain herself just to compensate for losing control during her confrontation with Yoshino. Her cheek still hurt from her blow. All she could think of was to ease and erase the pain in her left cheek; she could not even touch it because it was too tender.

(What did that bitch know anyway? What did she know . . .)

She tried not to question Yoshino's concern, instead, she curse her petty meddling. She was only there to look for her godforsaken painting, not to be her_ mother._ She already had one; she doesn't need another. Didn't she say a while ago that she heard Yoshino's words from so many before? Being numb has its perks but when Yoshino began to say things she had been hearing before, she wanted to punch anything within arm's reach.

"Oh fuck, yes, the fucking loo." She growled as she found the washroom nearby. In haste, she ran, slammed the door open, switched on the faucet and tap water to her sore cheek. The cold water gave little comfort.

She curse and curse and curse in her breath as her hands dippered water and splash it to her face.

"What do you know? You've never loved anyone the way I had. You did not see her the way I did. You never felt how happy I was but then finding out that it was all a lie. With that small smile on her face when she looked at me, I thought that's the way she loved. With that fucking faint smile on her face and that fucking high upbringing, every one thought that she should be exalted; even I fell into that fucking trap. . .

"What about you—have you gotten over your almost-obssession for your cousin? Of course, you have. And you paraded your success to my face as if it were so easy to do. Separation to become your own? Don't fuck with me. Do not fucking tell me it's easy. Is it because you got over it that you think I'm the same as you? Do you think you could measure my fucking relationship against yours? I gave my life to that fucking slut . . . fucking pathetic . . ."

The first cut was always the deepest.

"I was just no one. Nothing but a normal high school student, trying to be just a fucking painter of my own, not shadowed by my parents, but then she made everything fucking worse. . . she showed how shitty her life is and I was encouraged to save her fucking ass, then I'll be the fucking naïve to believe she wanted to be saved, that time will make things bearable . . . . Everyone else is just like that fucking bitch . . . ."

She wanted to smash the large mirror in front of her. She wanted to destroy her pathetic reflected with her fist. It was too tempting; her hands itch for blood, her fingernails digging unto the palm her left hand as she heaved her arm for the impact . . . .

"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you . . ."

But her left hand stopped at a mere inch before the mirror. She remembered. Her left hand is her writing hand. The hand that she uses to paint. The hands she was taking care not to have unwanted carpal tunnel . . . the hand that she valued as important as her life.

In defeat, she rapidly recoiled her hand away from it and looked disdainly at her mirror image. The woman on the other side had no more tears to shed.

"FUCK YOU!"

* * *

"Nee-san?"

She was at the doorway when she saw her big sister brooding violently at a solitary porcelain sink in the washroom.

"Tou-Touko," she hoarsely said, surprised by her little sister's invasion. She thought that everyone was gone. Her heart thumped so fast, but with the adrenaline pumping in her system enabled her to come into conclusion that _that was fucking close; only Touko should see me like this._

She stammered "What are you doing here?" with fear evident in her eyes. She did not like the idea that she'd be seen like this by _anyone. _Because this is one pathetic show that would not die down for months.

Touko smiled painfully, trying hard not to shed tears. It was such a long time when she last honed her skill as an actress, but Yumi Nee-san needed it. It was the only way she could calm down. She put her hands on her hips and haughtily asked, "Are you finished now?"

Yumi's throat was suddenly blocked, and in reflex, she inhaled sharply. She could not contain the air anymore that she laughed loudly that the hallways shook. She gave in to the high of this moment—a while ago she was cursing the world and her fucking little problems and now Touko was here—the fluctuation of emotions dangerous to be experienced by a volatile person like her. She wondered the last time she'd seen Touko . . . when was the last time?

She did not know that while laughing, her tears poured down. Was she really happy to see Touko? She could not explain . . . it seems everything was so fucked up and a Messiah just walk into the washroom saying things unlikely of what Yumi considered Jesus Christ.

It was as if she were surrounded by piles of shit, and someone grabbed her up . . . by a hand covered with sparkles.

Touko was confused and dropped the act. "Are you all right in the head?"

Yumi was still laughing as she tried to reply, "You don't ask a lunatic if she's fucking not_ right in the head_."

Touko smirked at the logic.

"I have this itch in my head that tells me my brother sent you here."

Touko took a step to her. "Yes. He was trying to hide how angry he was. He doesn't want to make me worry, but I know. Give him some slack, Nee-san."

"I'm sorry." Yumi uttered weakly. She turned off the faucet that was opened ever since she was in the room. She tried again, forcing herself to stand straight. "You and my brother really understood each other, aren't you?"

"You are my _sister_. Yuuki is chicken compared to you." She heard Yumi roared in laughter. Touko turned on the lights inside the washroom. "I heard about it. Still mad?"

"I won't see it again. It's that bad." She sniffed.

"Somehow, I doubt that. But think whatever you want."

Yumi thought of the best answer she could give her. The way she said it came naturally and spontaneously, that she doubted if Touko was just tolerating her. In a way, yes, but at the same time, she could not feel irritation from her petit soeur. It made her think of Sei too. "Thanks, Touko."

Her petite soeur looked at her for as long as she could; she tried to stay fixed to Touko's eyes. It was not a silent battle of whose right or wrong; it was a battle of whose perspective was more logical. Yumi knew she would lose to Touko. She tried to look away, but Touko stopped her when she said, "Nee-chan, let's go home." With a smile on her face.

She loved that smile.

As Yumi arranged herself despite the redness of her cheeks and eyes, Touko extracted sunglasses and handkerchief from her bag and gave it to Yumi, who was now strolling languidly through the door. Touko was about to turn to the direction of Yumi's workroom when Yumi put her arms unceremoniously on her shoulders like a drunk and said, "Where to? Your place or mine?" as Yumi wiped her face.

"Yours, of course. I need to dump you in the safest place in the world: your apartment." Touko knew it was empty for months, but it was clean.

Yumi examined the frame of the sunglasses. She muttered, "I don't like how _big_ these shades are framed."

Touko pouted, "Deal with it."

She put the sunglassess and walked with her petite soeur by the hallway. But she abruptly stopped when they were at the door of her workroom. She opened it, expecting the worst (that Yoshino was still in the room), and projecting her best (smug grin that she honestly couldn't produce in her state). When she opened the door and looked inside, she heard Touko asked, "Are you expecting someone?"

Yumi groaned heavily. "Yoshino was here a while ago."

"Is she the reason you were throwing tantrums in the bathroom? Or that bruised cheek?"

"No. She isn't." Technically, Yoshino was not.

She grabbed her jacket. She still hated the sight of her unturned works resting upon the walls of her workroom. Unfinished businesses.

But she needed to try. Touko was here.

"Let's get out of here."

* * *

_The next day_

Sachiko tried to sleep, but all she could think of was to get Ryu out of the mess he created by planning insurgency within the company. She thought of everyone that could possibly be an asset, a gamechanger, a liability, a threat. In the hours that her mind was remembering faces . . . important faces . . . expressive ones, dull ones, those who liked to be the center of attention, those who liked to be the background observers.

She fell asleep in her bed as she listed names in her mind. She had accounted everything that should be disregarded and put into importance. Yet as she opened her eyes, she was expecting Ryu to be there, trying to wake her up. But he wasn't. She felt her hands cold when she touched his pillow.

She rose up, and when she saw the time, it was surprisingly early, a very unusual occurrence. Was it because she was agitated since last night? Even with two months of pregnancy, she had not yet see the signs of what her mother had suffered when she was carrying her . . . which made Sachiko more uneasy. It felt like the future before her and her unborn child was hazy. All she could think about was saving . . . fulfiling what he hoped before in her childhood.

She thought once more of Yumi. Ryu has her painting. How did he know that she was looking for it? There was little danger of how he had known, especially if he noticed that she and Yumi were not in good terms. Yesternight was a proof that Yumi's forgiveness was non-negotiable. She felt sick.

Ryu would be hurt if he found out.

Yet, this day and tomorrow will be dedicated in saving him. She will not take his bait, but she will make sure that Kashiwagi Suguru will never step foot in the office of the Ogasawara Zaibatzu's highest-ranking officer.

She will make sure anyone who sided with that upstart will _bleed_.

* * *

She spent the day working through hours without pause. She never had the drive to stop whatever she was doing—calling all major stockholders, remembering faces, talking to them. Some was reluctant to talk to her; some had been wanting to see her. She saw how Ryu had done—everyone that she had talked to be eager to discuss her plans for the company if she stepped forward and take the job his father should have taken . . . the job that his grandfather had been failing to do.

She was not surprised how vast Ryu's connections were, or how trusting the people are to her and his husband's capabilities, but she feared his grandfather's retaliation. She kept repeating to them, _no, no, all I need to do is damage control. What did Ryu told you? No . . . he is not involved in this. _

She was worried for her child, a little blip that somehow had been tough even though her mother was nearly killing herself with work. But it will only take two days. Two days, and after she fix this, she will take care of herself.

Thus far, she had not talked to his grandfather; neither was summoned. They were in the same mansion. Did his grandfather even anticipate this? No, she will fix this herself. She won't let Kyouiichi know about this. Courage left her when she found Kashiwagi Suguru at the doors of the president's office. She could not even move an inch as he stepped to the elevator and casted a blank face. No, of course, Kyouiichi _knew_ about this.

Then her phone rang.

/ Sachiko. /

Ryu was on the other line.

/ Do you agree in my proposal? /

"I only intend to control this, Ryu. I will not take your bait. Please, stop whatever you are doing and talk to me. I need to tell you—"

/ Why? /

"Kashiwagi Suguru can be controlled. I know. If we could tell grandfather that we can stop him . . . that I can help him drive Kashiwagi away. But I don't need Oji-sama's position to save this, Ryu."

He weighed her words.

/ And how about Fukuzawa's painting? /

"Give it to her, Ryu. I don't deserve the credit. You found it."

/ Then, what about your promise to her? /

"I . . . It is you who found it Ryu. You don't have to give it to me."

/ I don't believe you. /

"Give it to her. _We_ don't need that."

But even though she was trying to make every word count, every line worthy of the change that she wanted for them, she found Ryu heaving . . . his ragged, slow breathes were getting louder and louder.

/ I thought you're finding it for her. /

"I . . . I was. But you did. But why did you look for it?"

/ Because you need it! That's what I do! To give you everything you want! /

"Ryu—!"

/ You are such a fucking liar. You need it. You need it for your_ petit soeur_, don't you? The one you ever truly cared about. The reason you won't take your grandfather's place anymore. You are trying to impress that bitch that you've _changed_. She who you left behind and you want to pursue now even after your stupid mistakes. That girl who you left for our fucking marriage. I was just the prick you happen to land on and fuck when you can't fuck her anymore. /

Sachiko could not reply; she was out of breath as he heard Ryu _swearing,_ growling as he cursed Yumi. No . . . _no, no, no, no . . . . _

/ Tell me, are you satisfied? Are you satisfied that you literally used me for your petty games? I thought I've seen the worst in me, but you made me too kind yet too cruel at the same time. Do you know how it's hard to see the person you've ever loved with all your heart already belonged to someone else? How pathetic could I be? /

"Ryu, please listen to me. This is not about Yumi! This is about our—"

/ Lies. That's what your grandfather had taught you well and all of us are your pawns. I know it all yet I stupidly played along. And now, I think I happen to like this little thing I'm holding in my hands. I asked one of your staff to fetch you for me, but it seemed he hasn't met you yet. Would you mind to kindly stop whatever you are doing, and look at your front door, and see how you hurt me? /

Seeing him walking in the vast lawn of the Ogasawara Mansion by her window was enough for Sachiko to get out and rushed downstairs (mindfull of herself) as she held her phone to her right ear, listening to Ryu's deap breaths as he raged his anger for the first time since she had known him.

She felt that he was trying to calm himself. He seemed to stop walking, and with that, Sachiko thought of various ways to calm him down and to tell him about the news. That she chose her unborn child over the company, that it could wait, that he's going to be a father. She wanted to tell him personally; she did not want the phone to separate them once more, like last night. As she went to the front door and opened it, she felt that rush of cold air from the outside. She hugged her jacket to herself.

Ryu was there, so far away from him—only the driveway separated them. She was thankful that he was wearing his thick jacket—he was sensitive to the cold.

But she stopped when she saw his hands holding the painting that Yuuki and Yoshino had been looking for three months. The painting that was now being held haphazardly by Touma Ryu. She remembered how he was fascinated by Fukuzawa Yumi's works; he was one of those who wanted to buy that painting. Now, he only just saw anger in his eyes.

Touma Ryu knew about it.

Upon seeing her, he threw the painting on the driveway. A crisp thud of hardwood against asphalt was heard. The painting—bright ocre yellow, a woman whose legs was eaten away by the yellow wind, with faint smile facing the sky and hands spread out—was facing the dark sky. It illuminated even at the dark.

"Ryu!"

Yet, she heard a sound of engine; she did not know that a car was speeding towards the upturned painting that Sachiko almost shouted, in fear that _The Passing Wind _will be destroyed by crushing the canvass against its wheels.

But the car stopped just in front of it, and Kashiwagi Suguru's tall form appeared before the car's door, stood up, and looked at her with a blank face.

Before Sachiko could register how Kashiwagi was allowed in the estate, she heard Ryu said:

/ _Do it._ /

Kashiwagi Suguru threw an opened lighter onto the painting.

* * *

She was still connected to Ryu's phone line.

"I did not lie. When I said I will do everything for you, it is the truth. But I don't see myself working for your grandfather; I see myself working under you. But, still, you won't trust me. I thought that if I tried harder—but it doesn't matter anymore . . . ."

He hung up.

Ryu walked to the car's door as Sachiko shouted his name. He only heard the crackling of the fire, trying not to be swayed by Sachiko's voice. No . . . Sachiko was not speaking. As he closed the door of the car, he saw Sachiko speaking through the tinted window. He just watched her. He didn't have to hear her. He was a lost cause for her anyway. Soon, he will lose her. No, from the start, he already was defeated.

* * *

Sachiko cried, trying to stop Kashiwagi. "You bastard! How could you do this to her?"

When he spoke, he was opening the car door. "Tell her; I don't mind. I swore I will not let any Ogasawara bothering her anymore. You are that painting. You are that noxous wind. And I will make her forget you."

He took a step back, and he raised his hand to demonstrate an informal salute to illuminated windows of the Ogasawara estate. He smirked, and he went inside the car.

Sachiko flinched as she heard a loud crack of fire and wood when it sped away, its wheels crushed the artpiece.

The painting's frame was all she could discern from the bright fire in front of her. She was seeing different shades of green, violet and blue as the canvass was swallowed by the flames and disintigrated. The chemicals from the powdered dyes that Yumi used created colors of fire were flickering before Sachiko's eyes. She found it terrifyingly beautiful, that even the brink of the painting's death had created this fire as its last struggle. Sachiko could not even take a step to stop the fire from ceasing its existence.

Soon, the canvas was reduced to ashes; the frame was reduced to brittle hardwood covered in soot and dust.

She could not feel anger. It was all her fault. She felt that she was already at the limits of the good grace of Maria-sama. She lost Ryu. She lost the painting. She could not even save the person in front of her. She could not even tell that she loved Ryu and that she was bearing their unborn child. She could not even find the words to settle Ryu's doubts.

* * *

She was like this burnt painting . . . so useless as it turned to dirt.

No, it could be saved. Even dirt has use.

She felt her phone in her hands. She can call—anyone. . . is there anyone that can help her? This was _The Passing Wind._ She dialed for the first person in her mind . . . "Yoshino-san?"

/ Sachiko-san? /

"Yoshino-san, please . . . help me."

/ What? Sachiko-san, are you all right? Where are you? /

"Oga—Ogasawara estate. _The Passing Wind_. It was here . . . it—it was destroyed."

/ Don't touch anything. We're on our way. /

Sachiko's ears heard a thin piercing tone from the speaker.

* * *

Ogasawara Kyouiichi was looking down through the tall windows of his office room in the Ogasawara Mansion. From there, he watched his grandson-in-law waged war against the family that took him under. So, he became Kashiwagi's ally. It was a surprising progress. He could not just fire him . . . no, that man had secured himself far more insurance than Kyouiichi anticipated. Disowning him from the family and from the company would make him lose face. That he could not handle his own subordinates. He had his grip on his wife. No, he just made his betrayal public. That was his intention. All his life, Kyouiichi was surrounded with people who thought they could just pacify a man like him. Too bad his son had not made himself worthy of the position. But his granddaughter—Sachiko still had a chance. They were still not finished finishing each other's pawns off the board.

But something was off—what was that grandiose bonfire in front of his house? He thought that was a painting, and then that bastard Kashiwagi came in like an entrance (he could still sneak himself into his property even though he blatantly announced insurgency against him) and finished the party by arson.

Even though the cat is here, the mice still play.

Every generation has its heroes, and that includes wretched ones who don't even deserve graces given to them.

But that artifact meant something to those three.

_I see it._

That painting. That painting. . . painter . . . Fukuzawa Yumi. Assuming if it were Fukuzawa's artpiece . . . she was Kashiwagi's employee; Sachiko's ex-lover; Ryu's rival for her. Kashiwagi's involvement didn't make sense; it was peculiar that he would destroy a painting of his employee. Or be involved in his employee's personal life. It would be . . . too meddlesome; intruding.

How would he wedge himself out of this sea of disappointment? He thought that this is a battle between generations. The unbending philosophies of the old against the revolutionary beliefs of the new. He thought Sachiko and Ryu had been planning this with Kashiwagi all along, but he was wrong; the other camp had internal problems for themselves.

* * *

_{AFTERMATH}_

"Are you sure about this, Touma?"

"There will be a time that she'll thank me, Kashiwagi." He said in a tired, croaky voice.

"You are a freak. It would have been easier if you left that painting as it is. Arson is always seen in a negative note."

"Because burning it wouldn't showcase your efforts, Kashiwagi?"

"Precisely." He frowned. He didn't like seeing Ogasawara Kyouiichi looming above them like a watchful vulture on a dying prey.

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N: **Hinomura Takuya was mentioned in Chapter 4,6,7,8,9,11,. He was Yumi's boss' uncle. And her second lover. I need to include him, as part of Yumi's backstory.

I know, _I know_. Why did Sachiko just tell the frigging moron that they're pregnant?! Goodness, this is sounding more and more like a soap opera.

Thank you all for reading and reviewing chapter 17! And the PMs humbled me so much. I had two special holidays here in PH and I took the time to review the last chapters and write. See what you do to me? I told you, reviews are important. It makes me happy, which will make my fingers keyboard-happy.

** Sundayevehero**: I don't know how to contact you, but know this: I am happy that there's a reader who somehow sympathizes with Ryu and Sachiko (because that's what I got from your review, correct me _violently_ if I read it wrong). He may have the biggest asshole but somewhere in this unfathomable world, a guy like him doesn't like how he views his life, or how he lives it. But he still couldn't leave that lifestyle. Dunno, that's my take on Ryu. And you reviewed twice! Now, I'm pressured . . . I hope I wouldn't disappoint readers.

Reviews, please?


	19. Chapter 19

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_{PROLOGUE}_

_He felt that he was in a wrong place. He felt suffocated in the vast grounds of one of the elite boy's schools in Tokyo. Everyone seemed to have chains attached upon their feet—he was not interested with those shackles, but he could see them all the same. Theirs were different; theirs were nothing like what Kashiwagi had for himself. He knew how surprising rumors spread out like the wind—encompassing and random. He could feel their eyes upon him everywhere. The name Kashiwagi, unknown to these rich boys, was not even his. The stigma of being an adopted child was enough for these boys with expensive school shoes and crisp white shirts underneath the Hanadera's ash gray uniforms to give him the eye of superiority. Eyes that could express flickers that would tell the thoughts of many. He was an outsider—he knew that very much—a rat just picked up from Kyoto by a middle-aged couple who knew little of his past and more of the legacy his dead mother used to have._

_His mother . . . he missed her. She was the only one he had. She was his world and only for her he tried to endure living._

_He was glad that no one, not his classmates nor his teachers, had bother him into talking. He was afraid of how everyone assumed such a solid ground before them—as if the world had been in favor of them and their future were sure and assuring. He was afraid that they'd know that he was paranoid of tomorrow, the uncertainty that one day he would be alone once again, just like when his mother died. He was afraid to talk—that if he opened his mouth, nothing would come out but his fears and his weaknesses and the phonetics of his deep Kyoto accent before these sophisticated Tokyo nobs._

_He did not speak frequently, but he tried to listen. He wanted to learn the ways to remove the proof of his past—his accent—as he glided along the walls and made himself inconspicuous. There was so much to learn; from the way they speak—a flaunty use of formal words and the lack of decadence in the way they stood up straight, to everything—like nobles in the imperial court of the ancient times. It was hard to learn, but he did anyway—everything must be learned for him to survive. There was nothing to support him, the way his mother did. He must do it for himself, by himself._

_Yet, the wall seemed not enough for him to blend into the background. He was too unique in a place when everyone had been the same. He knew that he had been trying too hard to duplicate their actions—to make it seemed like he belonged to their caste—someone anyone could discern to be from the uptowns of Tokyo; those that had money and prestige to back them up into learning the perks of being rich. He had none of that. He was never thought of that—not by her mother. He could not brag the way they did, or flaunt the way they did, or to belittle others the way they did. _

_Power to manipulate, to dominate. That's it . . . they had this invisible force that made them like that. He never felt he had that, never when all he knew was her mother's bright eyes, faintly smiling lips, her nimble fingers and long arms as she painted. Her arms around and above him, when he was sitting between her legs upon the tatami mat—she was flicking her brush upon the ground while he watched, saying things like, "this is how you create a feather-like effect when you paint the ocean from a far-away perspective . . . not too much paint . . ." gently near his ear. Nothing to look for power for, because he always knew that his mother protected him. He never needed it . . . until she'd gone._

_He wished he had. He wished he was far better than the rest. He wished that he was big enough to protect her. He wanted to be in Kyoto, in their large, almost barren house, painting. Watching her coming to the gates and welcoming her, from a long day at work. Cleaning the rooms before she comes home. No matter how poor they were, as long as their house were there, protecting them, life would be perfect. Okaa-chan and the two of them._

_It used to be, many years ago. He was very little but he could still remember her face. He would never forget the saturated smell of paint, the aroma of tea, the long dexterous fingers that held paintbrushes long time ago._

_Even though he was now in Tokyo. Even though he was now in this awful place called Hanadera Academy for Boys. Even though he was nothing. Even though he had nothing. Even though he was now a Kashiwagi. Even though he was just an orphan. Even though they stripped him of his true name. Even though he was afraid that someday someone will discover that he had no father. That only his mother mattered to him. Even though he found the Kashiwagi as his way to get power. Even though they had little._

_He will never be like _them_._

- Suguru (1985)

* * *

CHAPTER 19:

* * *

_Sixteen years ago_

The thirteen year-old Ryu had a fixed belief that nothing could be resolved with violence. One must fight with reason, with words, with the mind. He believed that hurting someone would only bring forth more violence, and nothing will be settled when you hit back after stomaching a punch. If there was one thing he learned from his mother, this was the ability to settle things with reasonable talking.

An argument for another argument. Settling affairs not with compromise, but with acceptance of complete defeat. Either you win or you lose.

It also brought him to trouble. There was nothing to fear if he knew that he was not in the wrong side.

He was in a clubroom as he watched the usually-empty grounds. He was bored to death; he could not even remember the reason that he came in the clubroom at lunch—he usually ate at the cafeteria. Oh, right, he was to assist a sempai in his club project. Who was still not here. Waiting for him made Ryu realized that the rumors circulating in the middle high school division—the school grounds near the clubroom building was void of students, except for a group of students ganging up at a bench near the building.

Ryu looked down, almost teary with boredom. He was almost caught up with sleep when a flash of movement had been caught by his peripheral vision. A boy with messy black hair was fisting a sempai's uniform.

"Hey—"

He stopped before he could gather attention for himself. This was their fight—no, this is not. But why?

Then, he looked at the group of students at the bench. They were looking at the two. The tallest of them had been eyeing the boy with black hair. Before he could shout warning to the boy, the door of the clubroom opened and his sempai appeared. He was clearly angry at his lateness, apologized with quick utterances for Ryu, and demanded Ryu his undivided attention.

Ryu removed himself from the window.

All the time, he wondered what happened to that kid. The tallest man of the group at that bench was lancing glares at him.

* * *

Nothing had been different in Hanadera with its sister school, Lillian. It had similar legacies: students were carefully selected and sorted out to produce the best of generations every year. Not only were they fussy on their students, they were also famous for their admissions of the sons and daughters of rich and influential families in Musashino area, which always brought them recognition. If Lillian had been famous for their one-piece, dark green uniform, Hanadera students were easily recognized for their ash-grey _gakuran_.

Lillian had their maidens; Hanadera had their gladiators.

Talked about being Shakyamuni's apprentices—what a load of crap—behind those rumors about the school's prodigious scholastic performance, less were said about the rules in the school grounds. It was a tradition seldom spoken.

Young KashiwagiSuguru did not know how extensive the history of such boring place—he was never into stories anyway. He hated Japanese literature. He hated Japanese history and social sciences. He hated tradition. He hated how people tend to give such recognition to places that did not even have any significance in their lives. He hated gossips. He hated how people get scared because of the past. Like the school grounds near the building where club rooms were located. Just like this stupid shit that was now attacking him for staying under a tree. He just wanted to be by himself. He did not need anyone—he was not bothering anyone—why is this piece of shit shouting at him—his saliva showering on Suguru's face as he towered him, a lonely boy who was just sitting under this tree.

He would not mind if this fatboy liked to share the shade, but his baseball bat was hanging dangerously above him that he could not stand the thought of that light metal colliding with his head . . . he just needed to make fatty shut his piehole for a moment—he needed _quiet_; Suguru's foot had been stomping in repeat by a march as his patience was getting thinner and thinner, that's why he's here in the grounds—

_Whack._

That's it. Fuck whatever he was saying; he intended to shut him up. It did not help that after punching him in the face; the beast retaliated by swinging his bat blindly at him. The trunk of the tree protected Suguru. He fisted the collars of his uniform, to ask him to "Be quiet."

Never mind that the first thing he had done was to stop whimpering. Good. That's fine for him. He released the boy, while he picked the discarded bat and tossed it to him. If he still wanted a fight, then, brother, all he needed to do was to ask.

He slumped once more to his spot beneath the cooling canopy of the tree, and stayed seated, as he disregard the boy's form from his sight and stared to . . . whatever his eyes looked at. The green grass—he could remember how perfectly Okaa-chan could do such a shade—she was not particular with adding much water—but she could still have endless tones of green in just one leaf sheath. But it was all in the past—the Kashiwagi household had found him and financed his schooling . . . they were nice people, he thought. Yet, he was afraid of telling them that he was still Kinomoto Hinata's son and he could ensure what every generations of his family had been nurturing.

But he could not tell them. Not now. Keeping the memories of his mother was his goal—at least he still had her sketches. He still kept them—he won't give them; they'd just sell them away.

He shifted in his seat, fearing that the spine of a sketchpad would bend. He put it on his lap and stuffing up the sleeves of his uniform and long-sleeved shirt up to his elbows, he tried to contemplate of how to convert such lovely color of mint green into a bleak gray.

* * *

Not far from Suguru was a tall third year from the middle-school division grinning like a mad man when he saw the freshman took out a large pad from his back and was seemingly dazed by the pastures of emerald. At lunch break, when every student was not in their stuffed classrooms but walking along hallways, taking a break, was when a first year middle school student of Hanadera Academy struck back at a third year who tried to intimidate him.

And won.

* * *

_Fourteen years ago_

It was not a momentous meeting of minds; it was more of an accident why Ryu and Suguru came into an understanding during a spring day of their third year in junior high school. It was more of an unplanned rescue for Suguru when a group of delinquents had planned to usurp his territory in the school grounds of Hanadera's middle school division.

Kashiwagi was not expecting that someone had planned to get rid of him. The leader even brought some of his friends from other schools just to add numbers to their force. He was evidently trying to gain his old status once more, now that Suguru will be leaving for high school. He was not wasting time. He clearly wanted to settle debts even in the lovely late afternoon in a spring day.

Touma Ryu was the one who told him of that disturbance.

"He's my classmate. I came to warn you."

"That doesn't make sense. A very proper and righteous student like you should've reported this to the faculty. Not warn me."

"I rather not be involved."

"Just disclosing that info added you to the mix, Touma."Kashiwagi smirked as he saw a group of students appearing at the grounds, one by one, tapping their baseball bats upon their shoulders. The leader was able to get those school-owned bats—did he bully the captain? Kashiwagi thought that the captain gave his full support and wanted his blood too. He smirked at the thought and told Touma, "You better get one of those bats from them. That's the first thing I'll do . . ."

Then the first wave of swinging bats came to his direction. As Kashiwagi run for collision, Ryu immediately duct. He heard loud battle cries; Kashiwagi punched the first man who attacked him and stole the bat, only swing it to the torso of the second boy near him. On the third, he kicked his chest. It went on and on and all Ryu could do was to watch.

The first wave was easily defeated. Now, those who had been standing by were now running towards Kashiwagi . . .

What was Kashiwagi saying? Get the first bat he saw nearest him? No . . . no, that's not how things should be. Not all things can be solved with violence. Words are always powerful—it can change things . . .

"Stop, if you don't want to harm me."Ryu announced at some attackers who were about to launch their first assault to their target, Kashiwagi. "If you really want to me to report this incident, that's no problem. In fact, I know every one of you here. It was easy memorizing everyone's names when you're in the student council."

The Hanadera students stopped their paths one by one, as Ryu gained bravery when he was reciting names, recognizing faces. The lump in his throat was getting smaller and smaller—seconds past by and he felt that his _name_ was finally becoming a _strength_, not a nuisance. He felt his voice losing its uncomfortable trembling, as boys before him weighing the bats they're holding—realizing that they were in a very wrong place, at a wrong time, holding the wrong weapon, talking to the wrong person.

". . . Abe-san, you don't want to add this to your long list of offences, though I haven't revealed to the council about your ventures to Chino-sensei's desk drawers . . . Fukao-san . . ."

In Ryu's mind, knowing too much can be dangerous, only if he were weak to defend himself. There were days that he tried to think if knowing _everything_ in this school could do good for him—he thought before that this would only lead him to trouble.

He wasn't that brawny to begin with—he could fight, but not against this _many_ . . . but Kashiwagi could.

"Who would've thought you know more about their shit than I do." Kashiwagi quipped recklessly, and Ryu visibly growled at him—their enemies just gripped of their bats tighter than before. Ryu's speech, therefore, was futile, when the snakes that he wanted to charm down retaliated and bared their teeth instead.

"Nice job breaking it, hero." Ryu rolled his eyes.

"Nice job fixing it, sidekick." Kashiwagi smirked. "Doesn't matter now, Touma-san. The brawl just started, and you forgot my name. Don't forget to add me."

"No," Ryu said. "We'll end this here. I'll watch your back, so that you'll watch mine. That's most important now."

The news spread all throughout the school when the names of Touma and Kashiwagi were heard over the hallways, on the first period the next morning. If anything was worth mentioning, it was only the fact that none of those who attacked them had undergone the usual disciplinary actions over _yesterday,_ and for the rest of the students, it was fine. Finer that no one was expelled. Finer that Kashiwagi will still be ruling over the school grounds. Finer that Touma Ryu, apprentice of the next student council president, was allied with Kashiwagi Suguru.

Somehow, balance was restored. Even though many thought that the pairing was formidable enough to induce fear to everyone.

* * *

_Thirteen years ago_

"I'm not surprised to find we're in the same class."

"What's surprising's that I'm still here."

"Yeah." Ryu finished their first conversation before the entrance ceremony commenced. As usual, Ryu was invited to present the incoming first years with his own acceptance speech; he was the school's highest-ranking examinee. He still tried to include himself in the entrance exam for the high school division, even though it was obvious that he could get in by ladder acceptance. But there was one thing that Ryu discovered when he investigated about the rankings of the incoming freshman students (with the help of the current student council).

Apparently, his conversation with Suguru was not yet finished. He prodded, "I heard you were second-place in the entrance exam."

The stoic Kashiwagi gave him a blank stare. It seemed that he was not surprised.

"No answer?" He propped his elbow on Kashiwagi's shoulders, as if he were a cabinet. Much to his expectations, the current champion of the school grounds did not offer any reaction to Ryu's heavy arm. He just stared at a space—everyone was busy doing their own business in the auditorium hall while waiting for the ceremony to start. Ryu tried once more, "Or are you equally surprised?"

"Fuck off." Kashiwagi replied. There was a twitch upon the left tip of Kashiwagi's mouth that Ryu immediately noticed.

"You always say the nicest things." He said, while his eyes were twinkling and the brows above them were almost reaching his hairline. Kashiwagi appeared to be surprised at how this Touma had been too much of a bother ever since last year. He was not grateful that he saved his ass long ago from the wrath of the school's administration and teachers—well, for beating some students into a pulp when he disregarded Ryu's warnings.

Touma Ryu was always perceived as a level-headed student, who could easily give smiles and laugh at anyone's jokes. The easy-going, joker, adventurous type.

"And here I am, admiring you!" Ryu joked.

Kashiwagi stopped him from snickering by giving him a deathly glare.

They were in the same class. Almost all that knew about their little history in junior high were equally astonished at the closeness these two powerhouses of the latest batch of students. At first day, everyone knew that the budding prince of Hanadera Academy would be Ryu—it won't be much far from the possibility that he would be elected into the current student council. But, this current alliance was getting too much attention.

There was Kashiwagi Suguru being close with the Prince. The person who everyone had feared—he emitted violence even with just his blank stares. They always seemed to ignite fights, but considering that he ruled the school grounds of the middle school division for three years, it won't be long for him to conquer the high school grounds.

Or, was the school grounds already prepared for him? After all, the atmosphere of the senior high school division was entirely different. There was more of the history—more of the unknown of what was happening within it. But with the Prince's association with him, would there be a change?

Because two days after the ceremony, Kashiwagi Suguru was seen with the currently elected treasurer of the supreme student council. They were in the rumored school grounds, their school uniforms dirtied, their faces sporting gashes and wounds.

Three days later, Kashiwagi was deemed as the unofficial leader of the disciplinary tribunal of the high school division. It was not officially announced, but it came as an unstoppable rumor. He was in under a tree; adjacent to it was the room where the student council meetings were held. He was allowed to do what he pleased, but that did not stop him from knowing everything that has happened inside the assembly. A student alone in the shade of his new spot under its canopy, enjoying his new view. It was different from the tree where he first found _peace _during middle school—this was better. And somehow, he was tailed by an unwanted entity in a form of a cheerful Ryu, who had taken a role in repeating everything that was agreed upon by the council.

Damn that treasurer and his tenacity with his fists. They settled in a draw, but at some unexplainable reason, he had been stuck with Ryu and his stupid student council.

He was still staring at the grounds when he sensed that a piece of metal was heading to the direction of his head. He swiftly caught it with his hand, but grimaced as he felt ice-cold chill dripping from his palms. "Shit."

"Sorry for that. Didn't notice your pad." Ryu grinned and disregarded Suguru's stare by opening his own can and finishing its contents into his mouth. Then he said, "Good thing it's not opened."

He was standing before a sitting Suguru, watching the latter's every move.

Kashiwagi looked at the soft-bounded pieces of Oslo papers upon his lap. His usually sharp and dark eyes somehow lessened their intensity. He swished his hand to remove the cold moisture from his hand and opened the can in precise motions.

The Prince was here to inform him about what happened in the council room. It was not a job that he required of Touma, but somehow, the latter just went to his spot after the meeting to update him. Ryu was obviously enjoying playing messenger—a deed that was totally a nuisance for Suguru. But he did not bother to ask him of his intentions anyway. As long as Suguru could be alone, then he won't give a fuck about whatever Ryu wanted to do.

"Tea?" Kashiwagi finally mouthed, questioning Ryu's accuracy for one of his preferences.

"Yeah. I guessed. No—I _saw_. It's the only thing you drink."

Kashiwagi raised a brow at the statement. When Ryu was still showing off his half-moon eyes and large grin, the boy sitting under the tree looked at him with complete disgust on his face. Kashiwagi looked away, staring once more to the vast fields of grasses, while Ryu started to shout a long growl. He began stomping a foot as he complained.

"F-f-fu-fuck you! No, no, no! That's not what I meant! D-d-d-don't think too highly of yourself!" Ryu grimaced back. He even managed to curse when he was not even used to it.

After several moments, Ryu stopped whining. After several moments, Suguru looked up at Ryu's tall form and muttered with a small smirk, "You say the nicest things."

Ryu snorted.

* * *

_Twelve years ago_

_Crack!_

"I'll quit."

"That's what you said a month ago."

_Crack!_

"Shit. I don't like this at all."

"Your work is basically just being _there_ on the school grounds."

_Crack!_

"I don't like it at all."

They were in the baseball field, where a pitching machine (which Ryu himself situated for Kashiwagi's convenience) was methodically throwing a fast pitch to Suguru's direction in five-second intervals. Ryu was resting his elbows upon the mechanical pitcher, watching Kashiwagi glared at him—as if those balls being thrown were his face. Kashiwagi was eagerly batting them away into successions of homeruns—as if those were Ryu's skulls. He was easy to read this time.

"You have power, but you barely notice that. You should know that you're the reason everyone's a pacifist right now. People like peace. Students in the lower grades won't understand that, but you've been there. In the fights. It's basically a deadly wind that our school isn't willing to talk about so gladly." Ryu straightened his back from slouching, and assumed a feminine pose. He placed his hands over his chest and declared, "And besides, you have me."

_Crack!_

Ryu swiftly bent his neck to his right just to miss the raging ball by a hair. That was really close. He grinned and propped his elbows once more on the machine. "Maybe you should have an apprentice in the first years. Anyone who catches your eyes?"

Kashiwagi said, "None seems adequate for the dirty job."

_Crack!_

"Yeah. The sempai's already recruited those two large twins from Class One-A."

"They're inseparable. But I don't want them."

_Crack!_

"I don't think they'll like what you're saying about them."

"I just said that they don't suit the disciplinary committee. That's all."

_Crack!_

"Well, who knew you cared."

_Crack!_

"Fine! Fine! Toss me one of those helmets, would you? Why're you always aiming for the head?! No, not the groin part—hey! Do you want me to die?! If I died, I'll haunt you and your girlfriends forever and cockblock you twenty-four seven . . . !"

* * *

Today was the first time Kashiwagi was summoned to the Council room. Ryu was calmly sitting on his chair in the conference table—his eyes closed, contemplating; his lips thin, seemingly choosing the words to speak; his back straight, determined. His prediction wherein this meeting would be successful was almost nearing zero.

(He was contemplating whether he'd drop the request without any pretenses or direct Kashiwagi into a mundane conversation, then to more pressing, opinion-requiring topics, then give him the offer.)

Kashiwagi opened the door gently and propped his head through the door. He went inside and found that Ryu was the only occupant in the room. His eyes darkened, sensing that something was shady, that the sempai were supposed to be meeting him—they were the only ones that could get him to that stuffed room.

Thus the invitation: "I want you to become my VP."

The snappy decline: "Not in a million years."

As usual, the Ryu was the first to break his tough mood and grinned stupidly at his friend. "The election is near, and I need your help."

This elicited an equally stupid sneer from Kashiwagi. But he explained, "I don't think you need my help. You have enough manpower to back your campaign. You have enough supporters to fill the council. You've earned enough trust from our batch-mates and our seniors, and admiration from the kohai. You have a coherent and just manifesto for the students to look forward to. I think you have enough to win an election."

All the while, Kashiwagi was drawing circles on the wooden conference table with his index finger, his head propped on the other folded hand. His brows were almost contorted, meeting; as if it was hard for him to say those words—it sounded that he was trying so hard to drop a compliment. Even within two years of sticking with Kashiwagi's aloofness, he was not surprised at the sudden change.

Ryu's voice was low and soft. "This is not only about election, Kashiwagi-san. This is about getting the right persons for the highest-ranking jobs in the school. I think you'll be a good VP."

"You think so?" It was more of a mockery than a genuine, honest question. Kashiwagi's eyes showed boredom.

"I know so. You're even more than fit for President; how much more for the VP's?"

Kashiwagi produced a small sniff that made Ryu looked at the former's reaction—just to see if he had a chance of convincing him. But Kashiwagi said, with a smile of disbelief. "You really don't know how to aim perfect flattery, Touma-san. Again, I am not interested."

"Think about it. The school is always about security—what it means to have a normal school life without fear of our school grounds. There's so many things that I learned from you, and I know you'll help me maintain an entire school."

But then, Kashiwagi snapped him off with a quick drawl. "Don't talk politics to me."

"This is politics. And as much as you hate that subject, you never realized that it loves you. You have the talent and capabilities of using it well, without abusing it." He looked away, hiding his jealousy. He said meekly, "You may not hear this from everyone, but you're a good leader."

". . ."

He continued, "If there was a possibility that you'll run for President, I'd immediately back down. That is how I rely to and trust your abilities. And you know, I don't give my trust that easy."

"Yes, you do."

The orange hue of the setting sun was permeating through the curtains and glass windows of the office. Ryu was watching it with private gloom on his face that he rarely showed to others. Maybe because Kashiwagi was the only person in the room—his only friend that could easily rid him off? The only person who wasn't as flattering and gratuitous as others. The only person who could see past the wide grin and deceiving confidence.

Ryu admitted, "They may think that, but I don't. There's always some avenue for doubt. Except for your case."

"I still don't want it."

"If you'd be bothered by the campaign process, I'll take that responsibility. You'll be just there with me. I'll speak for you."

Surugu stood up, ruffling the hem of his untidy gray uniform as he moved from his seat. "No one will speak for me. When did you get so sly, Touma-san? I know why I exist in this school. You always want me there because it backs your authority. I am a pawn to your ambitions."

Ryu looked away from the window to face him. "I . . . I can't deny that. But I have a vision for this school. At least, even just for a year, I want to see it happen."

Suguru's back was facing Ryu.

"You're cool, Touma-san. But think this: you cannot always mask your plans, all to appear tough. Sometimes a pawn knows his chess master more than the chess master himself. Sometimes a pawn knows why he's a pawn. There are two things why he does what you want him to do: either he likes being your pawn, or that he's just waiting for the moment to strike your back. Appearing so laid back will be the end of you."

Ryu expected this advice from him. It was based from Kashiwagi's experience.

"And what do you think are you, Kashiwagi-san? Do you think you're my pawn?"

Kashiwagi faced him and formed a proud, smug smirk as his eyelids covered a third of his irises. "Not at all. Like I said, I back your authority. That's a different thing."

Ryu smiled back, suddenly, honestly proud of Kashiwagi. "See? I told you. You'll be a good leader."

Kashiwagi realized that he became too talkative. He should have not said anything. He knew that once he talked, he'd be caught in a trap as tough as a spider's web. Touma Ryu excelled in catching people with words. Anything that was said and would be said would be used against.

He was annoyed by the move, but it was expected—he did not hide his irritation. But now, he'd make sure he wouldn't drop any promise.

"Just because I understand you, you assumed that I'll be a good VP? Fuck that."

* * *

_Eleven years ago_

"You don't have to intimidate him! He was just a first year, for God's sake."

"Yeah, and why don't you do my job?"

He gruffly pushed Kashiwagi by the chest with both of his arms, as if eliciting a fight. But for them, it was just a forceful tug to shake Kashiwagi out of his rather-unfocused consciousness. "Seriously, can you just be . . . nice? Even though that boy was especially unmindful of the school's traditions, you should have just played it cool. Who cares if he couldn't decide which affiliation he should apply? He'll still be making a decision later on."

At that moment, the argument was closed. There was no reason to fight over a stubborn first year, who still had his black student notebook untainted with either white or red colors—separately symbolizing the cultural and sports organizations in this academic institution. The boy with rich brown spikes had walked away after Ryu stopped Suguru from menacing him.

Ryu sighed as he fisted onto Kashiwagi's arm, mocking a punch, "I understand that you take your job seriously, but I think you're getting tired of this . . . well, this has been your third year in the tribunal. Do you need a break? I'll assign another for this responsibility, if that suits you."

Kashiwagi was now participating in a staring event. "You just want me not to resign as your VP."

"I'm not denying that." Ryu muttered rather quickly. "But, I remembered: you, too, weren't assigned into any club. Your student notebook is still black. Why're you pestering that boy, if you're guilty of your own reprimand?"

Kashiwagi said nothing, and turned away to the direction of his favorite tree. Ryu soon followed, and both of them paced upon the well-populated grounds with equal footing, watching the studentry in their liveliest gaits. No one was now afraid of the rulers of the school grounds. Everyone seemed satisfied that no bully was parading around the halls, causing mayhem to others.

Perhaps Kashiwagi was tired of being feared. Ryu sensed that in him.

Two days later, Kashiwagi Suguru took an apprentice. He happened to be that boy with chestnut-hair of spikes, who had his student notebook bared black.

The boy's name was Fukuzawa Yuuki.

* * *

"You're going away?"

"Yeah. There's no reason for me to be in Musashino. My parents—Kashiwagi-sama had been very good to me, but they're not here anymore. I can't pay back their kindness."

Ryu noticed a slight flaw in the fortress that Kashiwagi had built to protect his personal life. It was known that his parents had died in an accident a month ago. But he never said a word about it. Strong as it seemed before, he paved for a flicker of light to his walls, even for a moment. He always appeared to be brooding—if there was something that had changed since his parents had died, he did not show it. He did not want sympathy, it seemed. He was the only left Kashiwagi.

And with that, he can go anywhere—if he had no attachment to anyone anymore. He could go anywhere.

Ryu asked, "Where will you be going?"

For the seldom of times, Kashiwagi was in the council room, sitting where he was supposed to be sitting during council meeting. He was slouched, and he seemed to be investigating minute details of the conference table. His dominant hand was poised as if he was writing, but its course along the plane was uncertain. It was shaky.

He snorted, "Who knows? It's not you to be asking personal questions."

Ryu was sitting adjacent to him, watching his every move. "It's not you to answer lies. You have something in mind."

"Of course, I have."

"Are you going to a university?"

"I am."

(He was resilient; he must have thought of something to finance his college schooling.)

But he ignored his thoughts and tried to sustain the conversation without putting Suguru off. "I am, too. In Hanadera Uni. Hardly going anywhere."

But he did not sense any reaction from his friend.

He did not want to feel so clingy to Kashiwagi; they were never that close anyway. Yet, he wanted to know that he'd be seeing his friend, to know how he was fairing being alone, now that his parents were gone and he was about to enter college. Even though they both belong to the student council, seldom did Kashiwagi come for his assistance. He was just outside the grounds with his apprentice and, somehow, Kashiwagi knew just what to do without any assistance. Ryu respected his individuality, his freedom, and the exploitation of his privileges after he took the vice-presidency, but he sometimes wanted to see more of Kashiwagi outside their roles in the council, his precedence over the school grounds, him sitting on that favorite tree with his sketchpad on his lap.

"So, am I going to hear from you after graduation? Soon?"

"Probably."

On Ryu's hands were two cans of ice-cold green tea. He threw it rather forcefully than before, than how he used to. But he knew that even though he put much more force in throwing the goddamn thing to Kashiwagi's face, the latter would not notice—the inflection of force that declaimed Ryu's sadness over Kashiwagi being such an insensitive bitch. He was having a terrible time saying goodbye to his friend because he knew that his answers—whenever he's going away—would be worse than the amount to filth.

But he did catch it, anyway. As Ryu expected, Suguru just caught the rocketing can with ease with one hand. The way he casually opened it and captured the liquid with his mouth signaled that he did not even bother to tell the truth. Even if it were ambiguous.

But Ryu understood. It was not as if he couldn't read Kashiwagi. It was not as if they settle their conversations without frankness. It was not as if Ryu was _nothing_ to him. It was not as if they're not friends.

But he knew, he could trust his own instincts. Kashiwagi would seldom tell what he felt.

He knew that Kashiwagi wanted to act normal, as if graduation wasn't tomorrow. That the prospect of meeting him again after tomorrow would be possible. And soon.

Ryu nudged Kashiwagi from his spot—it was more of a shove. He broke a grin on his face. He raised his can of tea when he saw Kashiwagi's face dimmed with irritation.

"It's not you to answer lies."

"_Kampai_."

"_Kampai!_"

_Tink._

* * *

_{AFTERMATH}_

_Present Day_

Long, wavy tresses of light brown struggled against the wind as the person slid her doors open for her visitor. She engaged a feeble, shy smile at her as stepped sideways to make way. She closed the door with a small _thud_ as she watched her visitor casually removed her shoes and arranged them in the foyer with her feet—sliding them to a corner. She put her duffle bag upon the wall, which the chestnut-haired woman picked up to deposit it on one of the couches in a traditionally furnished apartment. The couch was solely for that certain visitor.

After she dropped the duffle bag on the couch, that visitor reached for her shoulders and ruffled her hair, which did nothing to disturb its neat waves. Then, she placed a kiss on her head.

She was glad that she was here. She was happy that she visited. She was happy that she was going to stay for a while. But she was worried of her. Of her reasons for being here.

She could see worry in her eyes, as if she was stuck in a complicated mathematical puzzle. She wore the same expression when she encountered one during high school. Being her little sister was enough for her notice beyond what she was showing.

As usual, she asked her if she could prepare the bath for her. Or dinner. She declined food, but she wanted the bath. With a string of additional requests, that she should join her, while they talk of mundane stuff.

She made it clear that she won't do anything inappropriate with her little sister. That little sister, however, did not say anything to evoke such declaration of assurance. But she chuckled anyway—the big sister seldom said those to her before.

Whatever the weight that has been saddling by her grande soeur's heart, she could not point it out, nor induce her to spill it. But whatever it was, she knew how it wore her out.

It is not her problem. Although she wanted to help, she was in no position to interfere.

It was also the reason they were sisters, after all.

But in small ways, such as washing her long hair and scrubbing clean the smooth planes of her ivory back, she would make her feel better.

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N:**

**For sundayevehero:** my other stories are progressing in a much slower pace than this one, but if inspiration hit me one of these days, then I could add another chapter in How They Wish It Was Raining. You can request for kinkmeme for any pairing, just to give me a head-start. XD As for the dynamics between Ryu and Sachiko, it's not the same as the chap9 in HTWIWR. They are not as _honest_ Suguru and Sachiko, not as transparent. The proper description for Ryu/Sachiko would be _subtle._ No taunts, no provoking actions or words. I really want to know what you think, so if you're still interested, you can PM me. XD

**A/N2: **I just want to convey my appreciation to all who read this chapter. I know that Ryu and Kashiwagi's bond isn't the most popular in this story, but I stubbornly included them anyway. In a way, I presented something of Kashiwagi through Ryu's entries and I had no regrets about it. I made this character, and I am going to stick with him. Kashiwagi too.

Although it has been a month since I updated, I hope that the readers would still tell me what they think of this new development. Publishing the unabridged version of a story in my one-shot series was successful enough, and I appreciated those who read it! Even though I haven't been active for two weeks after that last update, I hope that this new addition would give me much more encouragement to continue my work. It's tough when you were stuck for ideas but with your help and encouragement, I'll make it!

So, I beg reviews for the Ryu/Kashiwagi dynamics. Please? Tell me what you think.


	20. Chapter 20

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

{PROLOGUE}

_The pain started beneath the sternum, pulsing, gripping on every rod of muscle, constricting as tendons and cartilages stretched out almost to their limits. The supply of air decreased significantly, and the need to breath expanded the diaphragm, but this reflex suddenly caught between the caging pain of his weak lungs and his dry alveolar sacs. He tried to stretch his neck, to direct his nose high to the air, but he could not stand the pain at the nape—he felt the coldness depositing on his saggy and dry skin even though it was fairly covered with the softest satin pillowcase of his king-sized poster bed. He raised his hand, suddenly, slowly, directing it to the first button of his pajama nearest to his neck, quivering as he tried to unbutton it with his almost numb fingers. It didn't work. He tried it with two hands. He was used to leave this kind of annoyance to the mercy of his agile and vigorous body—but it was all in the past now. _

_Suddenly, he felt time ran so fast, and he knew how this familiarity worked; he remembered every second of his life twenty years ago, ten years ago, than how he lived his life after that. Nine years ago, time passed as his body felt the toll of old age. Eight years ago, the voluminous graying skin that he constantly and stubbornly ignoring was as vivid to his vision even though his sight were now hazy and shadowy. His legs that used to be ripped with hard muscles now could barely stand because of arthritis, that even the thick, keratinized skin of his sole were now cracked, not because he lived through a life of poverty before (walking without shoes on dust-filled and mud-soaked pavement) but because he was mulish enough to ignore cane until he got sick of falling down. Then came the wheelchair._

_The dim, ochre light from a faraway source was his only salvation—there was something in that light that made him calm somehow._

_But he needed to get up in the morning. He needed to read those documents that Kobayashi-kun would submit. That boy—until now he still could not understand how that turd could not even follow simple directions. He told him to cut the budget a quarter off than that of last year, but he still was fighting with delaying tactics. He was determined to fire him this day—but if he submitted the right documents with correct numbers this time, then, he could still try to recall Hinegawa's worth. _

_He needed to check on Ryu-kun. He was going on his own way again. He thought he didn't know; he was getting his comfortable in defying him and getting his own decisions into the table without even having his approval—he was just the CEO. He was not the President and Chairman. He still owned this enterprise. _

_He needed to get up. Where is Sachiko? He better gets her and let her tend him. He always loved their games. It was the only method for them to get along._

_He reached for a bell on the bedside drawer._

* * *

CHAPTER 20:

* * *

_Present Day_

Kyouiichi looked at the documents in front of him as he stopped his wriggling eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose—he didn't know that Touma Ryu had gone too far. It was easy to remove him from his post—to remove him entirely from the family—but he had too much of shares that being on his way would simply tweaked things against his advantage—and the fact that Kashiwagi had been buying his way into the highest ranks—was just enough to make a cripple out of him.

There was one way to do this—the basic one wherein everyone was capable of—it would be to talk to him personally. What if this could change the course of their plans? Not that he could not do anything, but changing either of those two men's perspective and knowing their drive would be enough. The hard part is to get their attention. Must he do damage? Or must he walk into their side and play the weak?

The second one is not an option. Or rather, it was an option least considered. He is an Ogasawara, for crying out loud. He will not be bullied. Not by Touma or Kashiwagi. This is the time for the Ogasawara to unite once more. This is the time to rekindle old memories and reopen rotting wounds. In that way, he could achieve victory.

Somehow, this entertainment has nothing to do with money. This game was about the last person who would submit to intimidation and loss. The last person to bow down and accept person with the least pride in battle and the most pride after winning.

Well, if playing clean were those two had been doing, he would not mind playing along. After all, is there a standard to what was clean and to what was dirt? Were there rules anyway? Were they governed by moral rules? No. Not at all. Not when they don't know them.

They angered Sachiko-chan. They made a very convincing impression by putting her old lover into their family problem. Sachiko would possibly do two things: it was whether Sachiko would or not consider their family's reputation. She would defy Kyouiichi if she didn't care anymore; she wouldn't if otherwise.

But it seemed that she would.

Because he heard uniform knocks that always signify Sachiko's presence. The same knocks as Sayako's, her fallen mother.

It's time to make a deal.

* * *

_Several years ago_

He considered himself always on top of the mountain or on the highest floor of a tower, overseeing a vast land until it reached the horizon. Whenever a storm would come, he could smell its forging violence by a slight change in the scent of the wind, as if he could feel hot and cool air mixing before him. A vicious storm, that he could not prevent, but he could cope. But it would never be comparable to his Sachiko. Somehow, this little bird has been too over-confident to flap her wings away from her home. Birds of prey like them loom above all others, but he would never consider such a commodity like her grandchild to be mingling with chickens—like Fukuzawa Yumi. He had seen enough, and heard enough of it. Soon, Sachiko, his budding eagle, would be considering herself among the lowly poultry, scouring on dirt just to snip a bead of grain, because it was unable to fly and feed on a much active, fleshy prey.

He thought that the reason Sachiko suddenly became attached to the Yamayurikai was her sense of superiority to train herself to rule and govern. Sayako—he remembered—used to be the Rosa Chinensis of her days, and the fact that she was once a member of the Yamayurikai was also the point where Tooru and she first met. She must have gained that kind of ambition because her mother was one. But, luck came to her rescue when the Rosa Chinensis en bouton picked Sachiko as her petit soeur. There was nothing wrong with being one—it was just Mizuno Youko could never be much deserving of her title. Sachiko could have picked a better onee-sama, maybe another Rose with similar status as hers. But was there anyone else above Sachiko, when she was the most prized scion of the richest family in Musashino?

That was the sole reason why he must do something out of this delay of a sound decision from Sachiko of whether she was ready enough to fill that duty as an Ogasawara. Surely she won't be like her father, whose abilities reversely matched his great cowardice, and her mother who was the inverse of her husband. She had talent, but she was weak to rule. She could have been a better substitute for Tooru, but how atrocious it would be for Tooru to be overshadowed by his wife's abilities, when, in fact, she has not a single drop of Ogasawara blood? Sachiko was the same as her mother.

He knew that he made it clear that she was ought to be married to anyone who Kyouiichi had picked for her, and that was always an unspoken decree of the family. But instead of facing this objective with a straight mind, Sachiko-chan had been going on circles. But, it was not as if Kyouiichi had not been expecting this.

"I don't think I am ready for this engagement, Grandfather."

They were in Kyouiichi's office.

He replied without any hint of disappointment—after all, she may have a more proper and better excuse to abort this little set-up. "Oh, Saa-chan? I thought you are very determined to suceed me. Your lack of resolve to settle this engagement appeared to be so faltering."

"I . . . I need to think about this, about this engagement." She said.

"Why? Is Touma Ryu not suited for the Ogasawara family?"

He noticed the sudden twitch of Sachiko's fingers, but he acted as if he saw nothing. This was one of those times that she had been so reckless of her image in front of him—she always made sure that she won't show any form of weakness.

"Is he?"

He feigned insulted. Well, Touma Ryu still has to be dissected. "Are you questioning my good friend's grandson's . . . qualifications? I approve that your standards are so high that even that excellent boy is not deserving of my dear granddaughter."

"No, that is not the case."

"What then? Do you not approve of my recommendation?"

Kyouiichi noticed the sudden change in her. It was as if a storm had been brewing and he failed to notice it. It was like Tooru all over again. He tried not to sigh just so she could change her mind. But then, she had the will of her father.

She said, "I wish to decide whom to marry, Grandfather. My personal decision of who to be with for the rest of my life shall lie only to me and no one else. This has nothing to do with my qualifications as the next leader of our family's enterprise."

"Then, Touma Ryu simply is not the man you wish to share the company. Why? Do you have better suggestions?" He asked with genuine curiosity.

". . . !"

"Care to enlighten me, Saa-chan?"

He could have sworn he could make reconsiderations, but then, he sensed something in her the character that he hated the most. She hesitated. Her mind was not set at all to gain his approval. It was always her waterloo. She muttered, "No, it's nothing."

It was so vexing he could slap her.

But given his position, he couldn't just shout at her and tell her to be a good girl. She was as stubborn as a mule. "Then, I consider this act of yours just like the rest of young adults experience; you are just confused and you think that this subject was just too rushed, too unfair, but you are more than just anyone. You are different. A matter of your future was in need of pronounced verdict and all you say was _nothing_?"

This was enough for Sachiko to flinch.

"I'm not perfect, unlike you, Grandfather."

"Then start to be one, Ogasawara Sachiko, if you want to suceed me."

Conversations like these were as staple as the white, sticky rice they eat everyday, in the same room (his office) whenever he summoned him for a talk. She must have noticed—for all the things she had learned from him—that she couldn't hide forever, but she still endured and lied and faked and dodged whenever possible by letting herself be defeated in a conversation that she initially wanted to win. It was so sickening watching her fail.

It was so sickening watching her so pliant with her decisions and beliefs. It was so sickening that even though she had her mother's talents, she had inherited her father's weak determination. It was not as strong as Kyouiichi's.

"Let me remind you of your duties for the family. In your father's stead."

And being like that would not even help her in running a company.

"I need to go, Grandfather. I'm afraid I needed some lectures to study for tomorrow."

". . ."

She said, after she turned her back away from her watching grandfather. "Thank you."

"If you think you can worm your way out of this business, you will be gravely disappointed."

The fact that she said nothing was the reason he thought that Fukuzawa Yumi was not worth a hair of Ogasawara Sachiko.

* * *

Men and women in high society were never taught to use crude words and loud, screaming voices to push their point across an argument. Men are taught to be calm and precise of their words; women are taught to be eloquent but quiet with their beliefs. To gossip was always the flaw of women, and it will always be, but it was also tolerated. Gossips are powerful to make or break a person. Any praise or insult could be intensified. A simple gesture could mean a whole column of a society page of the newspaper. An innocuous act of honesty or kindness could break a whole family.

Her granddaughter's affair with her schoolmate was one of Kyouiichi's concerns. It was not as if he wouldn't allow such atrocity to pass his radar, but if she meant this little affair a serious business, this could affect not only his position as her grandfather, but also her position as the successor of the company. Everyone has high hopes.

Everyone had known that the first dance always closes an engagement. The dance in the ball sponsored by the Ogasawara family made a signature of Sachiko's future. Everyone knows it—Saa-chan was expected to have knowledge about it; Touma Ryu-kun was expected ask and take her hand for a dance. Her acceptance was expected as a collective approval for the lady's family, whether the man was worthy.

Thus, as a man, Touma Ryu was considered the most proper for the lady heir Ogasawara Sachiko.

Yet, it was as if Sachiko was vocal enough of her interest.

"It is for your imagination."

It was the oldest trick in the book. It was something that she carried out for so many years that denial and approval was equivalent to those words. Whatever the audience assumed. Yet, her denial took her into the disadvantage. She should have not taken that dance lightly. She should have not denied nor made unclear statements about Ryu-san.

Months before the formal _omiai _with the Touma Family, Kyouiichi called her to settle their unending conversation and to settle their silent dispute about Sachiko's future. One was sure: he would never accept her decision. He would never accept Yumi.

"I can never accept him. I love someone else."

"You mean, your petite soeur?"

She never mentioned her _petite soeur_ to anyone in the Ogasawara household, especially her grandfather. But Kyouiichi had been expecting a reaction because he had been looking too closely into her personal life like a stalker—but Sachiko was still on her feet. She had been expecting it. She knew she was being watched.

Yet, why the deliberate act of negligence? She wanted to be watched?

"Yes. Her. Fukuzawa Yumi. I love Fukuzawa Yumi." She confirmed.

Her eyes were unnaturally dark as she stared at her senile grandfather. Again, they were alone. But as she searched for any reaction from her senior, she found none. He was neither angry nor surprised—as if he knew it after all. His eyes broke their parallel glares, and relaxed more onto his cushioned seat, as if—

"Do you think I have not foreseen this act of disobedience from you?" He asked.

Sachiko was tenaciously trying not to fall down. "I have never disobeyed you, in any way. I have never been a disgrace to the family. I had done nothing to soil our name. This is not an act of disobedience; this is an act of independence."

He felt her courage surge all over her body—her blood fiercely pumping on her veins as she composed herself. She was angry of this informal agreement. She intended not to follow orders. She wanted to serve not the family, but herself.

"I love her, Oji-sama."

This was it? After all Saa-chan's hiding, her attempt to keep everything under Kyouiichi's nose, this was her response? Have she thought of the repercussions if she decided to divert against tradition?

"I do not approve of this arrangement, Sachiko. You must have known my answer from the beginning. Yet, you managed to continue your liaison with the woman. What are your plans? Must I suggest that you should simply cut ties with her? Must I order you to recognize your position in this family?"

"I recognize my position in this family: it is to succeed you. It is to be better than you. You put me in a pedestal higher than yours, and I will fulfill them. This is my first step."

"You are cancelling your engagement to Touma Ryu for her?"

"There was no engagement in the first place." She said vehemently.

Another losing match for her, then. Looking at her through his spectacles, he concluded, hinting that this is one of their games, "Then you are wrong. You were not taught well, Saa-chan. You knew very well what a dance meant. What it meant to accept his offer."

* * *

She had never danced with anyone before, even though she was always present in balls and parties that his grandfather had been constantly been preparing for his friends and business associates. If there was something that she had mastered, it was dancing—but it was not something that she thoroughly enjoyed. Especially if she required a partner.

Her first dance with Yumi was the one that mattered. At least, with that, even though she'd be partnered with Ryu during the Cinderella dance, it wouldn't matter because Yumi had made her do it. It was as if there was a silent agreement. Nothing would matter if it were not with Yumi.

Yet, how could such a reason would matter for the rest of the world? How could everyone understand that with Ryu, it was nothing. That dance doesn't mean anything? No, it was not the case. They do not govern the world.

His grandfather does.

But that doesn't mean, she couldn't do anything.

* * *

Yet, he did not expect Sachiko to confront her head on. Had her brain been melting since fraternizing with Fukuzawa Yumi and her friends?

She said, more with her heart than a blob of tissue in her head. "Times are changing. We are changing. The world is changing. We could not simply allow ourselves to be fixed into a pointless tradition that has little significance to what matters. A dance in your time might be meaningful, but a dance in this generation might be useless as dust."

Another useless radical sense of independence. He decreeded, "Yet, we are not other people. We are not like those below our social class."

"Why couldn't we?!"

Kyouiichi felt his heart constrict as he heard her words.

He was seeing not only Tooru, not only Sayako, but also himself. All of Ogasawara's weaknesses. All of their blind perception of change, of what was ideal.

He groaned with the strength remaining in his throat, "Because we have a permanent obligation to this family! To my father who made us rise to the top once more! Do not make me angry, Sachiko. Do not disgrace this family more than you've ever done!"

It was an insult meant only for her. Her sexuality, her ambition, and her ways to know them in painstaking ways. It should have been easy to know herself, to accept herself, and to live with it with those who love and acknowledge her. But, her self-awareness was a _disgrace._ It was a rejection she could not handle.

There was silence as Kyouiichi's voice reverberated along the walls of the mansion. It was one of the rare times he shouted ever since fatigue of old age had finally caught up to him, of the effects of his old vices that once more had gripped onto his frailing body.

What Sachiko feared the most, she was witnessing now.

A frail body of a family member, of her flesh and blood, suddenly losing its life force from a mortal, physical body.

Just seeing his grandfather reminded her of her horrid nightmares.

How could she defend herself? Yumi? If her weakness was the only thing that separate Sachiko and her courage to continue this argument?

She tried to reach out for her grandfather, forgetting of their games, their powerplays, her silent rebellion, his choking sense of obligation and family, even Yumi. Yet, she was dismissed from helping him on his seat with a wave of a weak, yet fighting hand.

Kyouiichi was fighting to regain his strength. His medicine was kept on a container that he was holding so desperately, and popped several pills to his mouth. Sachiko had no choice but to watch him bit those bitter pills with his brittle teeth, to melt them with saliva, not to choke them but to swallow them even with its tongue-scorching bitterness without the easing aid of water.

She had no choice but to go back to their game. All she needed was for him to understand that she conceded. That she surrendered. She wanted freedom so badly, but she could not get out, if she kept on losing.

She whispered defeatedly, "Grandfather, please reconsider. You are yet to meet her. I can be a true Ogasawara without sacrificing those who I love. I will succeed you, Grandfather, in my own way."

Him taking his pills seemed to ease him. He was now slowly gaining color and he stopped sweating.

And with his regaining strength was the rise of his confidence. His mocking, smug tone was clear in his voice. "And with you succeeding, you needed an heir. A legitimate heir. What are you going to do, Ogasawara Sachiko? Are there any other options?"

She silenced. Her eyes narrowed at him as she tried not to surrender an idea both of them had hated to discuss.

He continued, "Are you going to keep her as your mistress?"

"How dare—" _Wrong move. Wrong move!_

His victory was nearing. "It's been on your mind, isn't it? Yet it's a matter you won't discuss. A matter you would never think you'd be doing."

"I would never be like—"

He smirked. "Me? Or your father? Or like everyone else? Why, it is a privilege our society has. I always thought that this is one conversation that will turn the tables against me. But then, here you are. We are in a conundrum that should have been solved easily, if it were not for her, your Fukuzawa Yumi."

In silence, she tried not to hear him. In silence, she stood straight, to endure waves and waves of his grandfather's words.

"You delay your destiny, by just being with her. She slows you down. I would not mind if you don't like Touma Ryu; we can pick someone else. You will need an heir. That is the rule."

She wanted to kill him. If it should render her free with Yumi . . . in her mind she saw herself steal those pills and replace them with something else lethal—something untraceable, but lethal. With her blank eyes trying to maintain eye contact with his, her vision turned white into imagining herself standing before his deathbed, grining at him. Telling him silently that with his death, she'd won.

Yet, with that, the face of her mother replaced Ogasawara Kyouiichi's. She removed the seductive pull of her imaginings from her head. She was seeing her mother in place of him! No, not her mother!

But Kyouiichi read her mind. "Leave your dreams and ambitions—your promise to your mother—or, stay and fulfill them. The choice is yours. But then, you have no choice in the matter. We all are."

* * *

Her mother.

There were so many ways to describe Ogasawara Sayako. Many said that she looked like her mother, and it was more noticeable when she began her schooling in high school. Yumi met her on her first year as Sachiko's petite soeur, but it was only so brief for it was just a formal introduction. But before Sachiko could graduate, Sayako left.

He should have not mentioned her. Never in her expectations that he would stoop so low to win. It was an instant kill. It was her reason for staying.

* * *

Everything. He was talking about everything. He was not only talking about Yumi, but also Sachiko's insurgence that she'd been harboring for the past years.

"End this, or I will end it for you." Ogasawara Kyouiichi said. And it came with promises of execution.

* * *

Perhaps bravery was perceived differently from the person who possessed it to the person who perceived it. _Courage_, it could appear to be for herself, but it could also be called _cowardice_ for others. Kyouiichi must have seen Sachiko's embrace with her destiny as an act of courage, yet to others it could be perceived as an act of weakness and fear for loving Yumi. There was also courage for Sachiko leaving Yumi, yet there was also cowardice for giving up the person she had loved the most.

Courage for leaving the garden of maidens, but cowardice if not staying true to her truest desires to stay. Or cowardice for staying in that same garden and not facing her destiny, but courage if she still held on to her ideals and kept on fighting with them.

Either way, it was just a matter of perception. Whether it was an act of courage or cowardice, it doesn't matter.

Thus the end of Sachiko's youth, and the start of being the heir of the Ogasawara. The start of her initiation. And she started it with Fukuzawa Yumi.

* * *

_Present Day_

Fukuzawa Yuuki did not called the proper authorities after he saw Yumi's painting almost burnt on the Ogasawara Mansion's grounds. Shimazu Yoshino had tried to reach for Satou Sei but her phone was unattended. She could not call for Hinomura-san either. It was a corpse lifted from its dying place at the bottom of the lake to the surface. It was horrific to think that the painting returned to them at this state.

And Sachiko was not anymore the Sachiko Yoshino had heard in the phone when she saw her and the burnt painting. Something had turned her eyes into pools of dull, charcoal black. Yuuki dismissed Sachiko to return to the mansion, and let him and Yoshino deal with it. Sachiko looked at Yuuki, but it was void of emotion.

It was as if Sachiko had been seeing Yumi through her brother. Yuuki tried not to look away. He had his own opinion about the woman who once broke his sister's heart. But he would try to be calm.

"You brought a camera?" Yuuki asked.

"Yes." Yoshino nodded.

"I don't like this anymore."

"I, too."

"This painting shouldn't be here. It shouldn't be like this."

"We need to secure this evidence."

"No, we need to surrender this."

"This is not what we are looking for. This is not what we are looking for."

Yuuki was troubled at Yoshino's mantra as she mumbled. At first, he thought that Shimazu was broke that she needed something to calm herself down. But when she took out a large, sterile, resealable bag, he noticed what Yoshino had meant all along.

The remnant of smoke was still in the air. Yoshino could smell burnt paint—as if water, oil, pigments and fire were fighting for dominance in the air. She pointed out the remaining canvass of what they thought as _The Passing Wind._

Freshly dried paint.

* * *

{_AFTERMATH_}

He knew about the painting. About its former meaning in Sachiko's old life. It was meant to crush her spirit. But Sachiko had took the initiative to discuss about it. And it seemed that it mattered to her less. He saw a raging lion ready to take her place.

"You have seen their treachery, Saa-chan."

"Yes, Grandfather. I have. I will do what an Ogasawara will do in this crunching ordeal. Since I am to suceed you, and no one else. I will make sure that none in this family will be compromised. I will make sure Ryu will know his place. I will keep him, as an Ogasawara should. If he should break just to keep his promises ever since he was accepted into the family, then broken he will be. But I will bring him back to me, because even with his faults, at the end of the day, he is mine."

"As an Ogasawara should."

"As an Ogasawara should."

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N for **_**ds**_**: **I think you're right that I am giving Kashiwagi and Ryu more exposure than Yumi and Sachiko in the later chapters. But I wouldn't say that they stand more importance than others within the story. And if ever there was an option "Kashiwagi Suguru" in the list, I wouldn't place him initially as one of the main characters, because this story appeared as a mystery and doing so would reveal his role then. That's the truth. Also, it's not about providing pairings or romance. It's about moving on and about Yumi's change of character. I provided a ground for all involved characters to share their sides, and thus the basis of giving Kashiwagi extra paragraphs because of his role in the story's goal. I am happy that you'll still continue to read this even though this isn't your cup of tea. I'll be happy to discuss things, if I could personally reach you via PM. You know, I am trekking on a plane full of landmines. I'm really grateful that you commented, because some people would just quit early on but you struggled and even wrote a review to voice your thoughts. I am also a fan of Marimite so I understand your views about the Sachiko/Yumi fuss. I want to convey what the situation is to your mind and to get the right reactions from you. That's what reviewers taught me and that made me keep my feet on the ground. :)

**A/N: **For those who read Chapter 20, thank you. This chapter was something I was afraid of publishing, but I made it through. I think this is courage. I have this soft spot for Sachiko, and this chapter was the proof of that.

Long author note, but please review! And send them with love!


	21. Chapter 21

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

{PROLOGUE}

_As a child, Touko considered coloring maps as the mere simple experience that made her aware that there was an outside force, an outside world, besides her. She had plenty of blank maps, and she did not hesitate to use them all, even within just a day, just to change any particular drawn object in her map. Yes, she realized that not all things could be done at a snap of her fingers or her sheer force of will—it considered everyone, everything involved, to agree with her._

_In this case, she successfully hauled her older sister out of her workplace in the gallery, and it was done deliberately, with a hastily well-thought planning and timing. She made her way into the gallery—she was known to be the only person besides Satou Sei who were free and had the nerves to be in that suffocating room—but she dared not to come with a loud, demanding feat for warm welcome, like she used to enjoy. After all, she was one of the very few who could make Yumi follow her, just with a polite plea. But she told herself that she did not enjoy going here, today._

_Her black flats emit no sound as she walked on the pale marble pavement, her pace a beat more rapid, because she was neglecting the finesse that her legs used to possess. No, she would have run for Yumi's sake, but she waited. She knew that it was not the time to disturb her. _

_Being here meant that Yumi was in trouble, that someone needed her help to get her out of her shell once more._

_Yoshino passed by her and the junior saw the former's hands relaxing and constricting into a fist—did she hit Yumi?_

_No, it was evident that the other hand was covering a cheek of her face, and as she walked more brusquely to be near Yoshino, she was greeted with a glare that could slice boulders. She thought that she might have dueled with that glare in their old high school times—she used to glare back with her feisty own—but she was equally surprised to find herself as an extension to the disappointment and anger that Yumi was supposed to experience from the willful Yoshino._

"_Take care of her."_

_Maps were drawn. Lines and curves that were used to be thick with hard crayons were now thin lines stretched by a not-so-smudged, black, indelible ink. As you grow up, you use few colors than before. That endless spectrum would be reduced to distinct tints in the color wheel, until you could only distinguish and name and count them with just ten fingers. Trying to learn color-speak would be too bothersome, a waste of time. Colors are just a feast for the eyes, never for the tongue. Thus, monochrome or black-and-white it would be. Too much for boring maps._

_But it was rather simple that Touko thought of maps as such—Yumi-sama taught her to see them in that way. Not in a sense that Yumi would have liked Touko to join in her rather apathetic tendencies, no. She taught her that when Yumi was the happiest, back when she was in uni—that maps are supposed to be like that. It was that simple and precise; no bullshit deeper meaning. Colors were not reduced because of devaluing maps as a tool and not as an artwork. It was just not meant to be like that. No oversized landmarks, just circles, oblongs, triangles, numbers. Or even a tiny blip in the radar. She thought that it's just that simple. _

_When she found Yumi in the washroom, she thought that she had seen too many of similar scenarios that she'd be invulnerable to the display. She'd been like that, and even though Yumi used to say that it was fine to cry and to show weakness . . . nobody wants that. Not the Yumi now. Nobody wanted to see another cry in grief and despair. You take flight from sadness. By any means, you try to avoid that feeling. It was stupid now to be like that—to risk a portion of the heart to feel pain and sadness, just to make sure one is alive._

_She saw Yumi cursed herself in front of the mirror. Repeatedly._

_Those were unclassy drops of expletives that she'd rather witness in a dirty and stenched bar than in a noiseless, dark toilet. _

_She made herself known to her sister. She expected Yumi to give her a sneer that would negate whatever poison that made her spurt out profanities pitifully and alone, and what she saw did not surprise her. The first thing Yumi did was to ignore her cries and transform into an apathetic, cool sister who appeared as if nothing was wrong. That's what she was trying to do; to hide that everything went wrong. When Touko acted as if what she saw was just a minor thing—_

"_Are you finished now?" _

—_Yumi laughed heartily. It was a genuine laugh to ease her pain, not just to hide it. Somehow, Touko thought that she was now trying to move on, not just to hide her feelings with false happiness. She was trying to laugh it off. _

_For once, Touko was thankful that she responded the way she did. Because, normally, she doesn't._

_But she did not show her realization to the sensitive Yumi. Showing would only lead to Yumi contradicting it, hiding it more. Because she tends to rebel to her true feelings._

—_Matsudaira Touko (1998)_

* * *

CHAPTER 21:

* * *

_Three days ago_

Yumi was about to tear her hair off due to fatigue just to keep herself awake and welcoming to reunite with her apartment. She would have greeted the bloody room with a dramatic whine of welcome, but Touko was there, so she decided against her impulse. She was feeling like she had sniffed something illegal, feeling dizzy, uncharacteristically happy. She didn't know why.

On second thought, maybe because she outwitted, outshone Yoshino's stubborness with her own. Yoshino had a head as hard as diamond, but what did Yumi discovered—Yoshino turned out to be a fragile soft drink glass bottle.

She stepped out of her shoes, and immediately noticed how _clean_ the foyer was; her cotton socks had not gathered dust even when she slid her foot sideways to the elevated wooden floors at the receiving area. With a snort, Touko admitted that she bribed Yuuki to pick the locks of her apartment. Yumi tried not to grimace with Yuuki's sentimental efforts of welcoming her back to Tokyo, because she thought that he might have done it in guilt for revealing that the painting was given up.

It seemed that Touko appeared not aware of that bit, but Yumi was not stupid, and neither was Touko. But Touko was aware; she went to the gallery to console her. She would have not come unless Yuuki spilled something to his terrifyingly adamant girlfriend, who could scrape Yuuki's eyes to get information about Yumi from him.

After all, her little sister was never bothered with blood.

That little sister, however, was trying to be careful not to upset her older sister more.

Touko told Yuuki that it's not his fault. He told her that he did not like seeing Yumi like this again, just like before, when Yumi left for Kyoto, again when she came back to Musashino after months with Hinomura. It was the same face—a face with a blank smirk and a sensitive tongue—that expressed her apathy, or her struggle to lose every emotion she harbored within her heart.

That's when Touko realized that Yumi was afraid of everything.

She was afraid of Kyoto before because she knew that someway in between her commissions, she might see her old lover, Professor Hinomura. At the time, remembering him and his betrayal made her remember Sachiko. She was afraid of going home, because she was afraid of what people thought of her, of trusting always her heart. She was afraid of depending on other people again. She was afraid of the word trust, itself.

But she can't do anything. She doesn't hold Yumi's life.

Yumi propped herself in a couch in the living room, just to test the regaining familiarity of her apartment after months of being with Kashiwagi. Somehow she was craving for tea, a strong one, something that Kashiwagi had preferred. It was becoming a habit, to smell the mix of turpentine and tea. She found herself not liking it, but not hating it either. She was unsure, which is decidedly annoying.

Next, she became annoyed.

She remembered once more, that this day was the third time in her life that she had been fucked. It was her rejection not to come into terms with _yes, the painting is gone, yes, it's gone, I know, it's gone _(saying those repeatedly in her head, not voicing it out, because she had no courage to). Touko was here now, rummaging into the compartments of her fridge (when she realized that Yumi emptied them before she left, knowing that the house would be vacant anyway). To be vocal with her thoughts would strip her more of the dignity left in her, because Yoshino had torn it to mush in her old workroom.

But she could not help but stiffle a mewl to her otherwise overflowed sorrow that she tried to suppress, like a hard rock blocking the crater of an active, raging, pressured, almost bursting volcano. Somehow, red, hot, spewing lava spurt out of a small hole beside that crater—and that was _that_ mewl.

Crying won't make _The Passing Wind _come back to her. Throwing tantrums now won't. Anger because of Yoshino and that cunt Sachiko won't. But keeping it to herself won't. She changed her mantra now. She wanted to be numb. _Numb. Do not feel pain. Take it easy. Easy. Numb. Numb. Numb. _

_Just like before._

Thus her usual, devil-may-care tone that she practiced with Sei: "Touko. You stuffed my fridge. Why did you do that?" because she noticed that Touko must have noticed that _mewl_ too, the fact that she turned away her attention from the vegetables on the bottom compartment of the fridge just to look at the direction of the sofa. Should Touko have to be that _conspicuous_?

Touko answered, "Yuuki stuffed it with all you needed for the days you'd be here, until you go back to Kyoto."

Yumi deduced she was acting as if the _mewling _never heard. "Yuuki did?"

"Yes."

"Right, tell him I'll pay him back after I get my commissions." She dragged a chair and sat in front of the dining table.

"It isn't necessary. We're family, Nee-san." was the firm reply.

(Yeah, we are.)

It was already late at night, but Touko insisted that they'd eat whatever was there in the fridge, and unsurprisingly, the appliance was full. It came to Yumi that Touko already planned this; she knew what was going to happen. Yuuki, of course, would not want to be anywhere near her yet (she pissed him off because she was royally pissed off) but he was working in the shadows. She knew that. But that doesn't mean that she did not mean what she said to him hours ago.

Her intention was to know everyone how pissed she was.

Which didn't work in her favor.

(Shit.)

After what happened in the bathroom, she began to realize how . . . quiet after it went lost. There was no chance that it could be found ever again, and by some other force, when she thought that it could be destroyed, she felt that a large block of responsibility went away with it. Could this be numbness that she felt now? Oh, wait; was it working?

The truth was that she shivered with superstitious worry when Yuuki told her that he wished the painting burned into ashes. She knew he can be abrasive, but she did not expect him to be to her. He was always patient with her. He was always patient with her.

Touko noticed that Yumi was tapping her fingertips against the dining table too loudly and too rapidly.

(He was always patient with her . . .)

"Nee-san?"

She looked abruptly at her little sister and quickly folded her hands into fists, failingly hiding her fret from her. "What's cooking?"

"Pancakes."

Yumi felt her mouth water. "Pancakes? In the middle of the night?"

"When you're studying for almost forever, you appreciate things like this."

"You don't have to convince me; I didn't say I don't like it." Then after a moment, she thought of something unusual too. "Do you have tea?"

"Tea? In the middle of the night?" Touko copied her Onee-sama's reaction a while ago, mocking her surprise.

"Yeah."

"Ah, sure. I think Yuuki added new teabags here . . ."

Yet, after a while, she was with her own thoughts again, as she sniffed the bland smell of flour in the air, followed by eggs, and now the halfway-cooked mixture. Hearing not the uniformed tap of the four digits of her hand, not Touko's sigh as she watched the pan, not the swish of the fire from the stove that heated the water in the kettle for the tea she requested.

Touko tried not to talk to her older sister all the way through Yumi's apartment. She was quiet as she rested on the soft cushions of the passenger's seat of Touko's car, but something in Yumi's brooding face was not reassuring for Touko. She might be over-analyzing her (force of habit), but it felt more as if she wasn't sensitive enough. Yumi's behavior had been changing every now and then, and that's what she concluded after her grandesoeur's nonchalant retelling of events that happened that day before Touko witnessed Yumi shouting curses relentlessly to the unassuming mirror of the gallery's lavatory.

Not everything was according to what she expected as a fair life.

Of course, it was unfair.

She had the right to brood like this. She had the right to be angry. Touko knew that Yumi should have those selfish feelings. She was entitled to them. Yet, she would have preferred _her_ Yumi to be as honest with her as with other people. She showed her anger to Yoshino-san. To Sachiko-san. But she never vented out her feelings to Touko. At this rate, she should have not feel jealousy with that—she was so lucky that Yumi could only smile in front of her, but this was too much. Yumi was hiding her feelings from her.

That was unfair.

She knew the answer, and she was glad she knew it. She was able to hold into that assurance that only she had that certain light that Yumi could find. That's how she was full of herself regarding her older sister.

Yumi ate her pancakes like flushing water into the toilet, lacking manners of loud bites and opened, occupied, talking mouth, because she was starved. She made a comment that crying makes you hungry, and with Touko chuckling over that, Yumi resumed eating while Touko served her the tea that she wanted and resumed to pouring the sticky mixture to the pan for Yumi's second helping.

It's just that, _tea and pancakes_ in the middle of the night?

"That's not weird. You are supposed to be _the_ artist. Weird things supposed to reinforce your creative drive."

"And shit."

"Yes, creative drive and shit. But you shouldn't be eating too much at midnight."

Somehow, Touko scolding her reminded her of Kashiawagi.

Mundane was this late evening was, she knew nothing that was happening to the people outside the confines of her home. Little did she know that not only did she provoke everyone, she also made everyone did what they had done. Sachiko couldn't handle keeping her secret to herself, thus confessing it to her bestfriend; Suguru went to Kyouiichi to openly announce war against the head of the company; Ryu called Sachiko to tell her to join him to usurp her grandfather from his position.

It wasn't related at all, to her and her painting. But that piece of artwork was the abberation to the otherwise flat and clear reason for wanting revenge, power and even love.

* * *

/ What do you know, you recognize my voice. /

"What's it?"

/ When I told you I'll won't let Ogasawara Kyouichii bother you anymore, did you believe me? /

". . ."

/ Yumi. /

". . . I didn't."

/ He won't. /

* * *

Yumi choked in her own saliva as she breathed for air, when she woke up from a dream that she could not remember. She coughed, cursed, and relinquished the times she had this same satuation whenever she woke up from the REM state—it was sorely repetative. Even the moment after she frantically searched for any indication that Touko wasn't disturbed by her awakening—just like the time she roused from _that _nightmare of Sachiko and the foggy summerhouse when she took Yoshino home with her to get drunk. A day after she lost her painting.

There were always things;memories that made her remember Sachiko. Even the most boring object in the face of the earth like a toothbrush could make her remember the time when she borrowed Sachiko's own when she'd forgotten to buy one in one of their secret rendevous and the heated episode that happened after that. A speck of snow that settled on her short, chocolate brown hair; a line that she made on a dirty tinted window of a car with the pad of her finger, gathering dust—recollecting that her giddy, overexcited, past self once put Sachiko's name on a dilapidated car at an old, abandoned park.

Yumi gave all of Sachiko's articles in her possession to the surprised Touko years ago, a day before she went back to Kyoto to be with Hinomura Takuya, with only few words—vague ones—not even in the context of _how _Touko should dispose two boxes full of _Sachiko._ She never told Touko _how:_ she gave them in shy abandon and Touko smiled back, a proud grin—trying not too wide because of sensibility or courtesy reasons. She did not know if Touko burned them to ashes or returned them intact to the person who originally owned them, but she used not to care. She had Takuya back then, with the promise of forever.

But it didn't pan out.

In the years that she tried to get over her, she was constantly stopped—interrupted—whatfuckingever with _simple_ things. The memories assigned to each piece of object. That's why having a boring day was the worst day ever. That's why she shoveled every idea, every inspiration to her canvass—even without visualizing the _whole _of the fucking picture first—because she feared remembering idle things when she stopped thinking and started staring at the surroundings. The reason she never wanted breaks. And the reason she never finished a single piece, because of impatience.

For the last two months, she had forgotten them. Ironic that in Kyoto, where she feared to make herself _remember_ another fuckface like Takuya, she'd forgotten how to. In Kinomoto compound, she had somehow forgotten awful memories. With the Kinomoto women's works, she had forgotten the mundane objects. With Kashiwagi's evening tea, thick haori, and copy of _The Scream _in his office, she stopped thinking about them.

With time, she somehow forgot.

Somehow.

But tears flowed, as well as the cold sweat that gathered on her forehead and scalp, which seeped along the strands of her hair to their tips. Her t-shirt was also mildly wet. She could taste the salty, clear fluid oozing out from her nostrils. And she cried for real, not because she just felt thrashing, like in the lavatory of the gallery, but because it finally sank in. It finally hit her:

Sachiko, her missing painting, her unfinished works, her life, her memories, Yuuki, Sei, Touko, Yoshino, Hinomura Takuya, Ogasawara Kyouiichi, Touma Ryu, Kashiwagi Suguru . . . faces and people and places and things and everything that could be named—fucking dull things that made her _remember_.

Silently, that's how she cried. It was not a thrash anymore, but more of a tremble. There was no cursing. She couldn't curse. Just the lack of breath, short gulps of air, and the muffled croaks with her hand trying to suppress the noise to spare Touko of pure weakness and vulnerability that was Yumi. That _three-ante meridiem_ Yumi. The hour when the population was supposed to be dead to the world, or somewhere else in the unvoiced throes of heaven or hell.

And she cried, because it finally, truly, hit her.

* * *

Yet, Touko chose not to interfere. Just like before, at the doorway of the lavatory, she observed with her ears, instead of her eyes. Each sound of gagged cry tore her. But she cannot interfere. It was that Yumi when it finally sank in.

Just like Yumi, Touko gritted the arcs of her teeth against each other for her never to be noticed.

* * *

The next day, she abruptly jumped from her futon when her vision showed a faded maroon color of hair seeping into her irises and realized that Touko should not be here. Touko should be somewhere, being a junior intern or whatever, sifting through medical files or assisting someone giving birth or mending broken bones and noses. Yet, sunshine was pearcing into the curtained windows revealing her little sister arranging her own futon.

"You're—you're—!" Yumi gagged.

"Nope. I'm free today." Touko uttered, interrupting the question.

"What are you doing?"

"Going to the bathroom a bit, then to the kitchen for breakfast. Any preferences?"

Yumi did not answer. Instead, she put her face to the softness of her pillow and tried not to expose her eyes to light.

"No pancakes, please," she scoured for her voice as she tried to sleep more. She remembered that she supposed to have her alarm clock beside her futon, but it was in Kashiwagi's compound, in her room, probably burst out two hours ago. Probably, no one in that extensive house must have turned it off, and just let its irritating, monotonous ringing went on until the minute hand of the clock had stuck five-o-one. Seven-thirty in the morning was the supposed time; she checked her wristwatch.

She ate breakfast with the laziness of a cat, surveying the eggs with suspicion, as if the yoke had grown a face. She even poked it with her metal fork, and then the yellow goo went out from the pierced hole. "You want it hard instead?" Touko asked, coordinated as she finished preparing sandwiches for them.

"Nope. It's fine." Yumi answered. She sliced the sunny-side up and forked a part of it to her mouth, tasting blandness, and a little of the salt Touko showered above it.

"When are you going back?"

"On my own."

"When?"

"This night. I'll be taking the train."

"Obviously."

"Obviously."

Normal Day was what she muttered against her toast. She bit it with languid enthusiasm, even withTouko's talent with preparing them. A little bit of butter would make Touko scream in terror, but it seemed Yumi's allowed for it today. The brewed coffee flowed freely into her throat, and the caffeine and reckless gulping were enough to make her belch. It was the moment that Touko chuckled. She chuckled back, as if she was required to reply. "This is not half-bad than your late-night pancakes."

Instead, Touko replied with the middle finger. And instantly, Yumi's eyes went wide, and choked, surprised at the audacity of Matsudaira Touko to have bequeathed rude hand gestures. It was the cooking that she was very concerned about.

As to being a dick, she fingered the same signal. It wasn't bad at all; Touko laughed more.

"I miss my bike."

"Ride on it then."

"Can't. It's in Kyoto."

"Then deal with it."

* * *

That was the first thing she'd done, after getting back to Kyoto after several hours of travel and waiting. Touko planned to stay with her until her train ride, but Yumi thought it a waste of time. In the event that her little sister would object, she had planned every kind of reason for her to be left alone. Yet, it never came. Touko just smiled when Yumi sent her home, where Yuuki was. There was never an argument, but a breathy statement after a three-hour silence of staring at the wall adjacent to the opened television. On her lap then was Touko's head; she told Yumi that she haven't been watching in one for so long that she couldn't even remember the last time. Yumi was half-listening, and just pacified Touko's unnecessary ramblings by combing her hair with her hand, trying to make her drowsy. Touko was trying to entertain her by being more . . . talkative, but Yumi couldn't say that it's fine, being quiet. It's fine if she didn't say anything. And it worked.

By the time Yumi said that she must go away to Kyoto, Touko just said "Okay," and kissed Yumi's forehead like the mother that she always had—like Miki, who she would never bother with the worry of the life she was living. She couldn't tell that to her; that would be too harsh. They left the apartment as if they'd come back just a few hours later: Touko never bothered to take out the trash, to throw away the contents of the fridge and turned it off. It was as if Touko was expecting Yumi anytime later.

Even though she was tired of the train journey, she still wanted to get away from the compund first and gather her thoughts in a more familiar, hurting manner. Going to the Kyoto downtown became a good idea.

Yumi lifted the tinted face-protector of her helmet, just feeling the cold air reached the very deepest of her pores, and hearing the gusts of wind against the confines of her helmet. In the wide metropolitan roads where she had roared her motorcycle, she remembered the last time she rode on it, back when her emotions governed her body—back when she used to release and raise her hands to the air for three seconds. It was dangerous, it was impossible to liberate her control for more than that duration, but it felt good. That high that one get when experiencing the death defying.

It was vanity that drove her to learn that skill—vanity to prove that she was wild and a celebrant of the torpid lifestyle that she learned to cope.

But she couldn't do it anymore.

There was a nagging voice in her head that stopped her from doing the stupid, and it occurred to her that it was Yoshino's voice—_that bitch could not leave me alone even if we were miles apart. _She snorted, almost eliciting a smirk.

It occurred to her that she didn't know anything about Yoshino now.

What was she thinking when she was saying those things to Yumi, while Yoshino's right fist was poised for her face? Did Yoshino truly mean those words?

She went back to the compound almost the breaking of dawn. There she came like a slug, slithing her tired body to every wall of her path, not minding the old caretaker in a very dull kimono watching her with mixed curiosity and silent apprehension. The last thing that she wanted to see before she seized into sleep was her only accomplishment after almost three months.

She looked at the two paintings that she finished restoring and the third resting at the stand. She felt proud serving the Kinomoto just by letting her touch these women's art.

She fell asleep on the tatami mat of her workroom, breathing the air thick with turpentine scent and faint tea leaves.

* * *

_Present Day_

The shares of a certain Mr. Kinomoto were Sachiko's target of buying for her to secure that hers and her grandfather had the majority for the general stock-holder's meeting. Securing her people's support was almost an impossible of feats, particularly with the status of the company, but she had to prevail in convincing them. If only the subtext for their support was not about her finally taking the reins from her grandfather, she wouldn't be gittering silently in her seat as she talked to the phone with an associate of Kinomoto. He was getting another offer from another party, and it was obvious that it was Kashiwagi, but she did not let anger take her from speaking fluidly and glibly. Trying not to call Ryu would only make Kashiwagi gloat to himself.

It was not going very well.

"The other clientele was making a very generous offer."

"And I assume that you've sworn not to disclose the identity of my competition." She hinted.

"Yes, that is correct. We apologize for that."

"It wasn't necessary." She knew who they were.

The stakes were getting higher and higher, as Kinomoto had been proposeed by the other party with the sum twice as large as what she offered. She continued to raise, and with almost four hours of waiting, the other client folded, and it was her call to close the deal in her hands.

It was not a victory that she was happy.

There was a moment that she might have thought that Ryu and Kashiwagi was scouring every possible way to gain more in this fight, but as she pushed more to secure her own, she had been stepping into victories, phone calls and conferences later.

She would make Ryu come back to her, and into the family after this affair. She forgave him for managing that exhibition, days ago with Kashiwagi. She forgave him for giving up on her. She forgave him for keeping that painting for the longest time.

Let Yoshino-san and Yuuki-san deal with the aftermath. They had seen it, and they would discover it right away. The ashes of that painting did not matter anymore, but the person who had it before was. Sachiko thought that it was Kashiwagi. He must have coerced Ryu—talked lies to him—to make him do things he didn't normally do.

They must have known that it was all just a set-up. A performance of lies.

It was only a matter of time for her to find out the third person involved in this. Of course, art is a very small world. She would know soon enough.

After all of this, she would keep her responsibility as Yumi's older sister. Even though she hadn't have the rosary to prove their connection, she would make Yumi acknowledge her, even only in that aspect.

Because she believed she could make things right again. And she would end this quietly, peacefully, without involving Yoshino or Yuuki's influences. She knew they would not reveal anything—they won't re-open the case—becayuse the police and the gallery had no business here. She contacted them because they have the right to know. They shared and saw Yumi.

That this was personal.

* * *

_{AFTERMATH}_

Yumi was as alone as ever when Kashiwagi was nowhere inside the Kinomoto property, all the more that she wanted to check out every possible rooms and discover what was hiding on them. It was a break that she needed, and since Kashiwagi wasn't here to check on her and her progress by blocking the hallways of her workroom with tea, she did not hesistate to wander around. It has been two months, but there was little time taking a tour about the compound. Kashiwagi never bothered; his butler, Shimata, never bothered; and that old woman, who she had yet to know her name had not bothered. Even the rest of his phantom staff—if ever there were other people living here—had not shown their faces to her.

The house was just as inhospitable as its inhabitants were.

She opened paper doors one by one, expecting every room furnished and well-decorated, which they were. She had spent more than five minutes just gazing at the beauty of Japanese simpicity with less furnitures yet heavily decorated windows and walls. Woodcarvings in corners of the room never seize her fascination. Could it be that one of the Kinomoto's had done them? But they were always exclusive with painting.

She had not stopped admiring every room except when it was time to eat. She had gone to the dining area during breakfast and lunch, but she was greeted with the old woman who had just finished preparing her food on the table. She stayed at the door, standing, as if waiting for a command.

"Please sit and eat with me." Yumi obliged, awkwardly.

"I already ate, Ojou-sama."

When Yumi almost finished a bowl of rice, Obaa-san unhesitantly asked if she want a second helping. Yumi declined. There was a long line of silence as she finished the rest of her meal. She had thought of complimenting the food, and shyly done it; she was welcomed with a small smile. She regained her confidence and was about to ask her name, but Obaa-san just disappeared—excusing herself quickly—until Yumi's question faded from her lips like the breeze outside.

She kept on wandering around the compound until late afternoon. It was a bit of exhausting to be exposed to the compound's rooms all day; it was as if she was in an exhibition, a museum, sans the people and curators. She was alone, all day, and not even a single soul had witnessed her attraction in each and every article that she saw; her face shone like gems when exposed to light.

Yet, there was one mistake that she would keep to herself: it was accidentally breaching Kashiwagi's quarters.

It was a spacious room, with a large, thick futon that could fit seven people. A large closet door was near the bed, where it must have all Kashiwagi's clothes, including secrets that she had the opportunity to learn, but had chosen no to. Yet, in the vastness and cleanness of the room, another sliding door caught her attention.

There was a thin slit of light that seeped into that door, and agonizingly, she took two steps back from where she stood, just to rid of the building interest that stolen her logic over the idea that Kashiwagi would slowly kill her for this. That she betraying his trust and she was being an unprofessional, sticking her nose to things that would surely fuck her later.

But, she slid open the door and sneeked in guiltily. She felt like she had breached a wall so delicate and secretive, that taking a step because of curiosity was painful against the soles of her feet.

Yet, none she found surprised her. It was something that she thought he was always responsible for: he was keeping duplicates.

Art, indeed, is a small world. It always was, and always will.

Everybody knows everyone; everyone who had stablished himself or herself a place in this world had the help of others who had done it before, those who also appreciated his or her works.

She saw a table like in her own workroom, filled with brushes and tubes and cans. She smelled fresh paint—tangy and bitter when her tongue tasted the air.

Yet, she did not know anyone besides a few who could duplicate or fabricate art pieces except this one. There were two painters in this house, including her—two painters who never saw each other, not even once in the course of three months that she stayed here. There were halfway-finished works dabbed in canvases, unfinished copies of other works of the famous western painters. She had not found yet a single Kinomoto being fabricated, neither anything Nihonga.

Who was this person, and why was that person's workroom next to Kashiwagi's? Was he really keeping someone here?

However, she searched more, looked into crates that would make her solve the identity of this person—this person who had been in this house, fabricating works of art, an artist aside from her. And probably, Kashiwagi's lover.

Kashiwagi never said this—had the right not to—but this was, nevertheless, upsetting and tactless.

She looked at each duplicated piece, one by one, trying to search in her head the people that she had known to work with this kind of style; she had a few guesses, but all of them were either in jail or hiding, because of art fraud. Making and selling duplications were illegal.

In a corner of this large room, two _fusuma_ paintings appeared like a barricade. She popped her head between the _fusuma_ to hide another set of paintings, yet these were draped in white cloth.

The last half-dozen items that were draped in white cloth, she yet had to see. In painfully stretched time, she gently pulled one cloth away.

She was stunned with pure, unadulterated shock as she stared at the half-finished canvass. _It was here; it was here but it was unfinished. That doesn't make any sense . . . _

She pulled all the rest of the cloths that draped the last ones, and the picture that she saw in the first one was the same with the rest. Six unfinished duplicated works of art, all showing the same picture. All showing the imperfections and nostalgia of the artwork that Yumi once declared as the piece that encapsulated her heart.

Of the masterpiece that was once called _The Passing Wind. _

Her knees was liquid and her legs wobbled, having no strength to stand herself—she sank, watching painfully the work that she had lost, but painted with another's hand. Yet she found that her _own _was not there. The original was not in this room. She haphazardly searched for it in the boundaries of the corner and the two _fusuma_, flipping down all six of the fake Fukuzawa's, but it was not there. Just a can of paintbrushes, a dirty cloth, the white hangings that protected the paintings from dust, and a pallete.

She looked away from the fakes, and she found another article that made her eyes hot with tears: a wooden, circular tray with a dark-brown clay cup.

And she smelled the same smell that was all too memorable as her workroom in the Kinomoto compound.

Turpentine and tea leaves.

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N: **I'm so happy I wrote Yumi again.

I AM SO SORRY. I am certainly not dead, just stuck for two months. I'm so sorry the frequency of my updates turned out this way, but please do understand. I hope you appreciate this one, even though I've been MIA for a very long time. I hope I could get back to the usual routine of one update a week. Reviews though, are all I desperately need (_honestly_). Thanks for those who waited patiently while I squeeze myself out of this pitiful state. XD

Business-talk is painful. I could almost hear the sharp swish of butcher's knives blazing in the direction of my neck. I hope someone here could tell me how I crap this chapter providing a surreal situation of money-talk, and improve this.

Please review!


	22. Chapter 22

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

CHAPTER 22:

* * *

[Entry 1]

—_damn it, do you have extra batteries? Two triple A's. Shit, it's on already . . ._

_Fukuzawa Yuuki here. Made it to the gallery at exactly fifteen-thirty, fifteen minutes after Fukuzawa Yumi's painting called __The Passing Wind__ was suddenly missing. Turned out to be robbery, as six suspects, who were last seen in the Nihonga section, east wing, were captured and held for questioning. Don't know how it turned out this way; the place was trashed. Heat sensors busted, CCTV's busted, even the activated barricade's busted. The fire sensors activated because robbers put two smoke bombs, to activate the security systems. The rest of the paintings were covered by the metal plates when the smoke alarm was activated, except for the wall where Yumi's—ah, Fukuzawa's painting was hung. The plates were blocked by metal rods slipped in the plate's way, unable to cover the painting._

_Yumi . . . was surprised to know it's missing. Damn it. She even wants to use my fucking gun. But it wasn't a surprise that it was stolen, she never sell even one of her works. It was highly regarded by those who want and acknowledge her talent. _

_It's a cruel joke . . . my first major case involves my sister. _

_Objective is to find the painting and bring it back in one piece. Another is to find out who stole it. First one's imperative, the second, optional. _

* * *

[Entry 2]

_Quite a risky plan. A attaché case was found to stop the metal barricade to shut down the section completely. Inside was a titanium metal, enough to stand the pressure of its force. The CCTV was interfered with a wrong feed. _

_The suspects, six of them were in this. Five were found inside the gallery as security guards captured them before they went to the front door. One was captured outside, where he was stationed in a van, from the get-go. Turned out that the plan did not work. They suceeded in shutting the CCTVs, the heat and fire alarms. But they did not put the case with titanium, and they were not the ones who set teargas._

_They went into the gallery by different means, possibly. One is to act as a tourist, another as a uniformed employee, another as a technical crew. Found a spider at one of the wires for their CCTVs, thus explains the different feed. Yoshino-san was indeed right about that._

_The suspects were hard to convince to talk. It was Yoshino-san who said something to the man who knows how to talk Japanese . . . I did not hear even though I was watching a room away from the interrogation room . . . but she said something that made him pale in fear. I don't want to know what the hell that was._

_The six, who were Southeast Asians based from the language they're speaking. Malaysian? Indonesian? Could not confirm yet. Right, it was Malaysian. Only one of them knew Japanese. They appeared to be surprised that they actually failed. According to Shimazu-san and Chisato-san, they were given money to do the job. Their employer they didn't know—they were just following orders through cellular phone. Found one in their possession; the number was untraceable. They actually were given half of their money to prove that the order seems legitimate—again, when we checked their accounts, money was untraceable. Turned out that money was transacted in cash, and were given instructions where to find it. The forensic accountants were baffled at the least, that the proprietor had used convention and modern way of transaction._

_It was intentional when they remove the tourists and a curator in an area, in the reason that the wing should be closed for the day. A guard was stationed in the wing, but was told by one who's speaks Japanese that the guard was requested to be removed from post. When not convinced, he called the headquarters for confirmation, but communication was bypassed and interfered by the man in the van. But when all five were able to remove the people out of the wing, the fire alarm was activated; the water sprinklers were activated, the barricade going down. This was not in the video feed. They were not instructed to break the fire alarm. They denied that they put the teargas; they were all outside the wing when it happened. _

_They were supposed to get inside the room, just to deactivate heat sensors in the painting, and tear it from the wall, put it in a bag, and walk away until the curators and guards realized that the wing was vacant with people, as well as the wall vacant with Yumi's painting. With the CCTV interfered, there would be no trace._

_In a sense, these men never succeeded. They were not able to get the painting. But they were tricked. Someone was inside the building. Someone who knew their plans, and use that to his or her advantage. I think, he's the one who activated the fire alarm. He was the one who put that attaché case. He was also the one who put those rods to stop the plates from protecting the painting. And he escaped when everyone was agitated because of the fire alarm, and the fact that those five men were caught by the security._

_Fingerprints on said objects and locations were useless._

_Their employer, whoever he was, would be pissed off knowing that his plans were screwed by another. _

_Yo, Yuuki-san—_

* * *

[Entry 3]

—_witness came to confirm the suspects' faces. _

_Kashiwagi Suguru, of all people. My senior at Hanadera. I couldn't believe that he's here at Musashino—nothing was heard of him ever since he left Hanadera. His parents' death must have pained him a lot. But he was here. And he saw this shit._

_Turned out that he's one of the patrons of the gallery. He came into the police station and said that he wanted to help the police, since the TV stations already broke the news. He was there when the alarm broke out and was near the Nihonga section when the suspects started to run away. He identified the men and confirmed it._

_Yumi was surprised when she met Kashiwagi-san. Didn't know him. He seemed to know Yumi's works quite well, and based from their conversation, he was a fan of her works. He even knows what the critics thought about that painting. But Yumi was bothered when he said something about it. Something of the opposite—I don't know._

_It bothered me too._

* * *

[Entry 4]

_It was easy. This investigation has nowhere to go. Yoshino figured that there was no use in extracting the whole story from the suspects, as she told me even after she contacted Chisato-san. Two days of having ample information in our hands, except the leads of the person behind all of this. _

_I have no idea where to find him. _

_Yoshino was convinced that it was nearer than we thought. She thought of the people close to Yumi: Sei-san, him, and Touko-chan. How she thought that Touko and I could be part of this, I want to strangle her. But, I understood. Associates in the gallery? They were scared of Yumi. The boss? Why would he even plan that? He'd have more money in displaying the paintings than what he and Yumi would get from the insurance. Takuya? That might be one. That bastard still might have unfinished business with her. I must check on him._

_What was the painting to Yumi, Yoshino asked me that. I couldn't answer, but I know what it was to her. That's what holds her sanity. To keep hurtful things at bay. Reminder. _

_When Yoshino asked why Ogasawara Sachiko was not one of the lists of the people Yumi was closely associated with, I want to run away and never answer her. I couldn't say that Sachiko-san wasn't, but that was the point. That painting is a reminder. _

* * *

[Entry 7]

—_crossed out every possible bidder that have no interest in modern Nihonga. Quite many people, but many too have little association with her. I've contacted with Yumi to take her opinions about these bidders, if ever one of them offered her money in exchange of the painting, or if someone desperately wanted them—whatever—as long as I get a reaction from her to whatever name on the list. Four years of lists from auctions, etcetera. I've consulted Hinomura about this, and all requests to sell it were denied. One even offered 500 million yen. That's a lot of money._

_Still wasn't sure of the masterminds. . . two people gunning for that painting—_

_There's a possibility that they're the same person? Possible, but hilarious, Yuuki-san._

—_shut up, Shimazu-san. Anyway, that's another angle. If it's for money, then why did he steal those more expensive Nihonga? If not, then, what for is it?_

_Yuuki-san, it's not about the money. _

_Huh?_

_Someone is bored enough to steal it from the gallery. See? A 25 million yen Fukuzawa. Just one. The others' prices come close to it, like __The Deformed__, with 20 million. __Distance__,__ with 21 million. Why only one painting? Why not three Fukuzawa's? Why not the others? There were also 500 million yen-paintings in the same wing. Not to mention a Higashimaya on the opposite wall._

_Because no man could steal three paintings in less than two minutes._

_Let's not take down the fact that they could be two or more. Even foot marks are useless. With all the people visiting that section that day . . ._

* * *

[Entry 8]

_Yoshino-san showed me yesterday the names that she wanted to investigate on out of the four years worth of list. Name's Touma, Ogasawara, Kinomoto, Hinomura. She's really fast. Anyway, the three, I couldn't get out of my mind. Touma is now the last name of Ogasawara Sachiko. Ogasawara is Ogasawara. And Hinomura is the professor._

_I'm not liking where Yoshino-san is heading. _

* * *

[Entry 14]

_Yumi continued with her work in the gallery. She said that she know less of these bidders, has no idea who they really were, and would never bothered about it. She never wanted to sell her paintings, anyway, so there's no point in knowing benefactors and bidders. _

_Shit._

_She just dismissed the list. Even though it's better to co-operate if she wanted her painting back. But she said she's busy._

* * *

[Entry 16]

_Police have come across another case, and superiors assigned it to me. I think I need Yoshino-san to take care of things while I get this new thing done. I still hope that I should concentrate more in Yumi's painting, but the police was thinning its patience. Why are they so less professional about theft?_

_Oi, Fukuzawa, that's a record, everything you said is there._

_Shut up. Anyway, since Shimazu-san will take care of this for me now, I'll close this next case fast, she won't even miss me. _

* * *

[Entry 19]

_They were fucking bailed out. The case was brought to court days ago, proven guilty, but since these were attempted robbery, their penalty was lessen, and they could be bailed out. They were fucking bailed out. The embassy had asked if the trial could be held in Malaysia, but the court did not allow that. Yet, something changed—they were bailed out. The embassy was not responsible for it, they did it because they wanted to help their families, but then . . . _

* * *

[Entry 21]

_Met Kobayashi at the gallery. It's been a long time. I found him sitting in front of __The Deformed__. _

_What the hell, Yumi's not in Musashino anymore—she's in Kyoto for crying out loud. She didn't even contact me or Touko that she's leaving for a commission. And that commission was sponsored by Kashiwagi-sempai. And it has been a week._

_Touko was pissed off, but she did not show it. She couldn't do anything, and I can't do anything. Sei-san thought that Yumi, at least, would have told her whereabouts, but that's the problem: Yumi's isn't a little girl anymore. She won't tell me where she's going because I'm not her ward or anything in the first place. We gave Sei-san the names that Yoshino-san wanted to investigate on, but even with that, I'm still not buying it. Even though Yoshino was very suspicious about them, I still am convinced that this is not where we're supposed to look._

_I wonder how Yumi'd cope up with that. She swore that she'd never go back there again, but that's because Takuya was there. She won't risk seeing him again. But why did she agree? What were Kashiwagi's terms that made her go back to Kyoto?_

* * *

[Entry 23]

_Kobayashi was actually an employee of the Ogasawara Zaibatsu, close enough to meet Touma Sachiko, Touma Ryu, and Ogasawara Kyouiichi, the big three of the company, in an everyday basis. That bastard was actually there to discuss with the owner that they would be happy to loan a good painting in replacement of Yumi's missing one. _

_I wonder how he could stay there, everyday. But the pay was high, who could blame him?_

* * *

[Entry 25]

_Finally at Kashiwagi's compound. This trip would just be about informing Yumi about our progress—and we're going to tell the truth—but when Sei informed us that the compound was used to be the Kinomoto compound, I shivered. We have forgotten that Kashiwagi was in the gallery at that time. We've also forgotten that he was one of the patrons, so when the idea was planted in my head—that there's some sort of a bizarre connection to all of this—I can't help but re-account all the things I thought about my sempai. _

_It was coincidental that Kinomoto was in the list, wasn't it?_

_We saw documents of Kinomoto women in Yumi's workroom, who happened to be Nihonga painters. Two, we know, like Junko and Hinata. Hinata was suspected to have a daughter . . . maybe that's the Kinomoto that we were looking for?_

_But Ogasawara and Touma were in the list. If they were more linked to this mess, then I'll say that this is not about the money. But we have no proof. Just this tiny bit of idea in my head._

_I just wish that Yumi won't attend the gallery's party to replace her painting with the Ogasawara's new one._

* * *

[Entry 25.1]

_Finally got a chance to talk to Kashiwagi. All we talked about were the Kinomoto paintings. He was a little excited when it comes in telling stories about the Kinomoto family, as if he were one of them. He loves them to the point that he bought the family house and even wanted their paintings to be restored back. He wasn't used in showing his feelings this freely. Of all my time with him in Hanadera as his apprentice, I've never seen him act this way. I know that many things could change in the past ten years, even with a quiet man like Kashiwagi-sempai, but . . . but I couldn't just accept this deduction. I might as well change my attitude and better face the facts to improve myself. _

_Any case, I need more time to check on him. I don't have any proof, but the Kashiwagi and the Kinomoto name were just screaming at me. This Kinomoto name, a name that no one was using now, was used by someone as a bogus to purchase Nihonga artworks. Yoshino and I searched for more Kinomoto in the country that can be related to Nihonga, but none matched, not even with this Kinomoto's kanji form. The kanji that was used for the bogus art purchaser and bidder was the same as the kanji of Hinata's, Junko's surname. _

_I have seen how he managed the estate. It was as if they were still alive. I thought that he must be related to the main family, anything, but Yoshino said that it won't matter. The Kinomoto wasn't related to Yumi, in anyway. Except they were both great Nihonga artists. That's all._

* * *

[Entry 25.2]

—_where the hell? Oh, it's on. Right._

_Oi, you probably don't know it yet, but I stole your recorder. Yoshino by the way. Well, here's the thing, you are not telling me something. To remove the info that Sachiko and Yumi were lovers before, that's why it didn't make sense to me. Now, well, it does. I knew that this is more than just unrequited love._

_Right, how did I know that? Yumi told me everything. And I mean, everything. I showed her the list, and she wasn't surprised. It's really personal! So, I talked to her, and she told me that Sachiko-san and she were a thing back at college—why was it that I wasn't informed about this?—anyway, Sachiko-san actually visited her twice after the painting went lost. First was two days after it went lost; the second was two days before she went here for Kashiwagi-san's commissions. So, why is it that Sachiko was reaching out after all these years of not meeting with Yumi? That's one._

_Hinomura Takuya, that professor? Yep, I know they had a thing too. Broke up because of the publications about her thesis—but you probably know that already. The case was resolved, but still, case is personal. So, can we ponder on this man? Sure we will._

_About Kinomoto, well . . . she talked about Hinata and Junko, the lasts of the line. But I saw the seal, Yuuki-san. The other Kinomoto's name was Setsuna. But what the heck, they are all gone. But since Kashiwagi's taken a liking with these painters, I'll look again with these names. _

[long silence]

_You know what, this case is more and more becoming like a stupid tragedy that I can't help but be aware of my role. As much as I want to know what happened in the past ten years that I've been away from Musashino, I hate how everything is revealed to me. _

[long silence]

_Anyway, that's all. Oh, yeah, I forgot, if you're looking for the recorder, like, right now, at three in the morning, you won't find it. I'll be returning this by tomorrow morning, by the door of your room—with a note, of course. It'll say: Entry 25.2. Got it? I don't want to spoil your night with Touko now, do I? She'd been busy, and you've been busy, so, congratulations on getting laid . . . right, if that's what I've been hearing a moment ago . . . if Touko-san is hearing this as well . . . Hi, Touko-san! Was it good?_

* * *

[Entry 26]

_Went to Hinomura instead of going back to Musashino with Touko and the rest. I have not seen him in a long time, and only met him twice, since Yumi wasn't the type to visit in Musashino._

_He was innocent, I know he was. When I saw him today, he was surprised to see me, yet reluctant to ask about Yumi. He had not seen him in a long time—three, four years? He was already back on his feet, and it seemed like his failure—no, offense four years ago was already buried deep under. He was already gained back his reputation as a professor in a minor university in Kyoto. He could not say anything, except that he was sorry for the pain he had caused Yumi. I tried not to flinch at those words. Many had been saying that, in front and behind Yumi's back, but did they mean that? Would he be more disappointed at himself when he'd seen Yumi once more, in a much worse state than when he left her? I knew . . . I just knew that he couldn't be the one stealing it. He is the type of person who doesn't want to have the evidence of disappointment within the vision of his eyes, because evidences are everywhere. That's why he resigned to his former university, to leave the disappointments that were planted there. _

_I've checked him already. I could tell that he isn't what we are looking for based on the documents that I've gathered—everything. It was easy to look for them when you have friends everywhere. But I have to see for myself. I have to look at him in the eyes and tell what the fuck is going on in his mind. _

_The fact that he could not say anything for a long time after I asked him about the painting was the indication that he was not the one. He just won't just accept the fact that he broke her completely. That little speck of hope that remained after Sachiko-san left her wake vanished completely when he betrayed her._

_For Yumi, love never leaves leftovers. It eats everything, tissue and bone._

* * *

[Entry 27]

_Tried to hold my breath when we visited Touma Sachiko for questioning. We were entertained quite nicely. Jesus, I really can't take it. What's her problem? Just when I almost puked because of Hinomura, Yoshino-san dragged me into the lioness' den. Part of the job, so I sucked it up. As usual, nothing from her. She explained her and her husband's liking for Nihonga, and it was not a surprise for them—the list went on, because they had the money to pay. Was it a big deal that they like Nihonga? No. They bought them because they have the money to burn. _

_I wanted to end the questioning as soon as we started it. Yoshino-san is much better handling her. For me, I had enough. The mere sight of her irritates me._

* * *

[Entry 31]

_Yoshino-san's gonna rig Rei-san. Though I bet her sleuthing there won't work._

* * *

[Entry 31.1]

_It didn't work. Even though Rei-san told her that Sachiko had been trying to reach Yumi, it still failed. Who cares when she'd been trying? What good will that gives? Would that make the painting appear before us? I want to think so. But, just not from her. It would be so ironic, that the person who would bring the painting back is the person that induced Yumi to make it in the first place?_

* * *

[Entry 33]

_She came back to Musashino, just in time for the party. But she came back with Kashiwagi, arms link, like she was his date or something. I hate it when I see them together. Though Yumi would never allow anything bad happening to her, the fact that Kashiwagi seemingly was beginning to feel comfortable around her . . . it was ticking me off. I know that he won't, since he meant business with her, but the thought of him messing around with my sister nausiates me. There was Takuya and Sachiko, but shit. I . . . _

[long silence]

_. . . I just don't want her to be hurt again. _

* * *

[Entry 33.1]

—_fucking way. No fucking way. This is Yoshino, and before I puke, is this Sachiko? Was that Sachiko? I know that the face in the portrait was almost covered in the shadows, but really, was that Sachiko? Why would she give this sort of painting to the gallery? And why the fuck were the people not looking at Sachiko like I do right now? Don't they notice? This is Sachiko for fuck's sake! _

_And where is Yumi?!_

* * *

[Entry 34]

_Cannot find Yumi in her apartment. Touko's worried. Ah, Sei just called Touko and told her that Yumi was already taken care of by Kashiwagi. Even though he was there to take care of her, I still don't trust him with my sister. I can see that there was something more to this employer-employee relationship, and the more I observe my sister, the more she trusted him, I think. There was a long link between Kashiwagi and the Kinomoto on my list, but—the truth—out of suspicion, I will dice his past. It's . . . unprofessional, putting my opinions . . . but I can't help it. _

_This is about my sister._

* * *

[Entry 35]

_I think I'd start where I first met him: at Hanadera Academy for Boys. It doesn't seem like a good idea that I am venturing over his past, but I have to take my chances. My sister being with him was just too suspicious. I've said this a million times, and very much vocal about it. Even though he's my mentor—that was the past. I don't see him as an innately bad person, but I should not take my chances. He is . . . interested in my sister. Observing him at his compound is proof. He's never harmless. He's associated with people who definitely are on the other side of the law—shady people. Not even my sister—bless her—is immune to that._

* * *

[Entry 41]

_Yoshino-san and Sei-san went to Kyoto and would try to talk to Yumi. Been a week since she went back to Kyoto, and out of whim, Sei dragged Yoshino-san just to play with Yumi's wits. Yoshino-san, however, called me this evening. Her voice was a little worried, and she said something that concerned me. Sei-san warned Yumi of Kashiwagi. That's why they went there. Yoshino-san was a bit perplexed that Sei-san could say such an opinion about Kashiwagi, shoving what she thought to Yumi, and Yumi just accepted it like a passive sponge. I remembered the time I found them in an uncompromising position back when I went to Yumi's apartment in Kyoto years ago, to give the grave news and invitation letter of Touma Sachiko's wedding. I always thought Sei-san has such an immense influence on Yumi's character, but should I complain? Sei-san completely accepts her for what she is. Yet, what gravely worries me is what Sei-san told her, which further stressed my mistrust:_ Perhaps, Kashiwagi was obsessed with Fukuzawa's too, just like him with Kinomoto?

* * *

[Entry 43]

_Nothing. For weeks with no leads and just with three names. How could we suppose to look for that goddamn painting when our two primary suspects belonged to the Ogasawara Zaibatsu and the last one was practically dead? The third I tried to look so for, but all I see was just papers. Papers in the family registry. Junko and her husband, her child Hinata and her husband, then their daughter Setsuna and her son. All men marrying into the family, taking the female's last name. It seemed unorthodox, but nevertheless, these women seemed always ahead of her time. Matriarchal. Painters with much fame but less was said about their personal lives. They had a beautiful, extensive property at Kyoto, but they seemed to be living just adequately for their art and themselves. Yet . . . all men, marrying into the family, until the last one. Setsuna. But she had a son named Suguru. I found this almost comical when I first saw the kanji—and how coincidental it was—that Kashiwagi Suguru and that Suguru had the same phonetics, but differing characters. Kashiwagi "_Suguru_"'s was a combination of generic Kanji and Katakana, while Setsuna's son's name uses the archaic version, a version closest enough to be produced in Kanji._

_I mean, why did the regulation for producing names, and the Ministry of Justice allowed that sort of thing?_

_Yet, even with this. The coincidence was too alarming. Too glaring, too obvious. I would have thought that there was something clever with history, with the motives, but it was getting a bit, like Yoshino termed: personal. He may be a serious, delusional fan of the family, but then again, Kashiwagi may be really related to Kinomoto family—this is what my gut is telling me—but, so what if? Who cares about that? Even if he inherited the family—no. Wait. _

_Right. Adopted by the Kashiwagi family—this is much a common knowledge. The papers had told that Suguru was a son of a distant relative, the names not specified, the adopting family has the right never to show that—that's why I less bothered about Suguru-sempai's history before _Hanadera Academy_. Now, it . . . could make sense. But then again, these are theatrical chances. These coincidences happen in real life? Amazingly theatrical._

_Is this another irrelevant information discovered? He's a Kinomoto. Right. The Kinomoto, which is similar to one of the three surnames on Yoshino's list? History. There is truth in history, as well as lies. Kinomoto—they never buy paintings, they make them. They sold. No, rather, they sell those that they didn't need. They don't made them for the money, but they made it for itself. For them, their talent is sacred. _

_But, is Kashiwagi Suguru an artist? He appreciates them; he bought them—I've seen enough in the compound—but, does he make one?_

* * *

[Entry 44]

_I talked to Touma Ryu, and nothing could make me cringe more when he told me that Kashiwagi Surugu couldn't even produce stick drawings to save his life. He could brawl, that he could. But he could never draw. I, for all my first year in highschool in Hanadera, had never once see him working to anything art. I, belonging to a family who is living off to their art had never deduced an artistic seed from Kashiwagi Suguru. I tried to remember, but there wasn't anything that caught my attention from him, asides from his prowess in executing discipline and unleashing fear. _

_Yet, Touma Ryu's lively chatter of his _dear friend _was enough to deduce that he was telling the truth, if not saying something to me . . . that maybe, they're not that close, as I assumed._

_But, stubbornly, that's what I think, because when an _idea_ sets and plants itself in anyone's head, it may remain forgotten and lay dormant, but when triggered, it could thrive and seep all faculties of thought and lead the head to think _that_ idea. And it's now eating my head._

* * *

[Entry 45]

_When I told Yoshino-san that I will focus my search on Kashiwagi only, she gave me a pat on the back and told me that it's my area anyway. I knew him more than she'd ever did. But in my head, I doubt if that made a difference. _

* * *

[Entry 48]

—_ck!_

_Just when we start to have a little, then the higher ups gave an order that this is going to be an unsolved one. Shit. Not when weeks of prostrating myself over this—where is Hinomura-san to defend us? He had no choice too. This is eating his money, thus he had to move on. We . . . we can't move on! What will Yumi say to this?_

* * *

[Entry 54]

_Touko said that the case went into my head and heart that I forgot how to do my work properly. She's right. When I told Yumi a horrible thing back at the gallery, I crossed the line. Maybe, this case is not for me. My first big break is my first big failure. I cannot stress more how inadequate I am in my chosen profession._

* * *

[Entry 54.1]

_Kashiwagi Suguru admitted to me that he's interested in my sister. I want to punch him in the face, but I couldn't. He revealing some sort of sentiment—or any kind of emotion to a person like me is ominous enough, like something's going to happen. Something that I couldn't even stop. I couldn't take that the ideas in my head are becoming true._

* * *

[Entry 57]

—_the painting . . . ah, the painting . . . medium: oil, initial analysis—shit, I can't do this—_

* * *

[Entry 57.1]

_I almost puked after we gathered the remaining artifacts of a suspected replica of __The Passing Wind__. How could I stay quiet after weeks of looking for it? My priorities had been altered too; I've been looking for its thief than the piece itself. My objective is to find the painting; the thief was just secondary. _

_And now I had it, or pieces of it, in my hands. It would have given us the light that Yoshino-san and I needed to open the case once more—to shove its folder away from the degrading corners of the file room, but it's never going to happen. Sachiko-san had ensured that already. When we looked at it, it wasn't the real one at all; it's a fake. Touma Ryu and Kashiwagi Suguru—those bastards burned and shit with a duplicate—which should never exist—and spite her for all her sentiments for my sister. It was personal, and everyone was dragged to it. My sister was dragged to this. _

_Touma Ryu is mad, and that's him in a nutshell. But how could I prove my theories if I'm tied up and pushed to a corner? When hurting him means colliding with the Berlin wall that is the Ogasawara family?_

* * *

_Present_

_[AFTERMATH]_

She wouldn't call it insane, never. Yumi would never border into psychological malfunction at that. The paintings in front of her were staring at her with profound, snobbish disgust, almost saying, and almost simultaneous as she muttered what was on her mind: "Who the fuck're _you_?"

It was midnight, and she still had not dinner, but the look on her face as she scanned the duplicates was a direct translation of the same derogatory question that repeatedly ran through her head. _Who the fuck are you?_ Should she salute for a job well done, or for keeping her at loss? She thought that having _sentiments_ over the man who employed her services was a wrong decision and she didn't regret the thought. What she regretted was the _feelings_—how awful a word—that made her react like this. She was angry, again, because she trusted him; yet, she didn't, didn't she?

When he called and asked if she trusted him, her answer was a definite _no. _Then, why was she angry in the first place? Because he betrayed her? That wasn't the case.

The scent of tea and paint began to nauseate her, and hence the flash of memories that correspond with that smell, and with time, she thought that it would just fade, molecules drifting farther and farther away from each other. But the scent—particularly the tea—was beginning to rise, to saturate, especially in the confines of the fusuma. Hence, the appearance of the shadow looming behind her.

She was waiting.

She said, finally, "You finally made it."

"No, _you_ made it."

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N:** _Breadcrumbs_ all over. A clarification:

I have no whatever malice with Malaysians or anything. In fact, they are the Malay race, which my ancestors came from, a proud one for that. This is for the sake of the plot.

This isn't supposed to be a part of the chapters that I intend to publish, but this was stuck in the DocMan, as I decide whether to have a filler or not. But this is the result. Though, I just wanted to tell you not to underestimate fillers. I learned from an anime (RGU) that it can be a very useful device for later flare. XD

I had to publish this fast though, and not to leave this rotting in my decrepit laptop any longer, before I change my mind. And for better news, yup, chapter 23 (formerly chapter 22) is almost finished. For those who read (and re-read; you, charming you) and reviewed the last chapter, thanks for welcoming me back!

NEXT CHAPTER: The Confrontation

**P.S. **_Anon_ from the review section of HTWIWR, could you reveal your identity to me? We need to discuss a matter of great importance. -TSR


	23. Chapter 23

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

[PROLOGUE]

_He have never seen a work that made me think of his mother, until he went to the east wing of Hinomura's gallery, at the Nihonga section. She had told him so many things about that girl—that girl who had been her junior—who she loved very much. She never talked about herself, no inclination nor reason to do so, but she always had time to import a piece of her experience and translate that into secondary memory. That was how he knew about her._

_She was fragrant in her stories—a full-grown sunflower eagerly following where the rays of the sun hits, or like a prism refracting thousands of colors. That's how she said that to him. He couldn't think of a way to describe a person so anonymous yet so familiar, just because he had heard of her, in broken stories and unprecedented reminiscence of memories._

_Even though she was quite insufferable, she was great in telling stories. The comical coupled with subtle affection were her ingredients while she talked about her sisters, and of course, Yumi. There was a certain hesitance in the way she talked about her—a flicker of the eyes upwards, unable to look directly at him, or the silent snort before she spoke—and those piqued his interest. He had not known these people from the other side of the hill, and had chosen the decision of never knowing them, but he wondered if ever he should have had removed himself away from that pleasant spot under the shade of a tree in the school grounds of the highschool pigtailed girl who had removed the ribbons binding her hair when she entered senior year, and who had loved her onee-sama very much. Simplicity was the first thought that entered his mind._

_And his deduction was never wrong. _

_By the time she showed him the painting, there was a rush of wind—that same ocre yellowish, toxic storm, which he felt from the tips of his toes, slithing through the nerves of his legs—warm, crescending into scorch. He awed that painting. Like any other artist, he said to himself—in a proud sort of way—that he should have done that work. _

_When he asked her about it, she smiled at him, hurtful, forlorn. Then, it's true, there was a sad history behind it, it seemed. _

_But what challenge was that to fabricate that budding artist's work. That was his greatest test, to testify his talent—the talent that his mother left him. And to do that, he must touch it with his fingertips, to abrade his eyes to the minute mountain ranges of dried paint, and to feel the emotions when she made it. A form of knowing _all_ of her, frighteningly intimate and omnicient. Like his mother did with her paintings. _

—_Kashiwagi Suguru (1997)_

* * *

CHAPTER 23:

* * *

Frantically, Yuuki called Touko's cellular phone. He might have been torn with the decision whether or not revealing to Yumi what he found out at the Ogasawara Mansion, but he needed to warn Yumi. He was at already late at night, but he had to be sure. Touko was with Yumi ever since she came back to Musashino two days ago, and probably, she would still be with her. On the third ring, Touko answered.

"Yuuki," A firm voice laced with soft pronunciation at the vowels came out of the speaker.

Yuuki calmed his voice, and the tremble in his vocal cords. "Hi. Is Yumi with you?"

"We—Yuuki, I'm at my apartment, she already left yesterday afternoon." She sound a bit distracted; he knew it that he called at a wrong time.

"You mean, she went back to Kyoto?" His voice fluctuated, almost hinting alarm. He mentally punched himself in the face for that one little slip.

"Yes." Again, a little distracted.

He grinned inwardly, in hearing the little inflections of Touko's tone. "Thanks, Touko."

There was a pause hanging. Finally, Touko asked, "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong. I'm just checking."

"Okay. I love you."

"Bye."

When proper goodbye were made, he dialed once more Yumi's number, repeatedly, waiting until the last ring before an automated voice record informed him that the number couldn't be reached. He tried again and again, but with no avail. It would have been better if she would have rejected the call (indicated by the busy tone abruptly stopping the ringtone) but the tone just proceeded and proceeded until the voice record warned him once more. Yumi was not answering her phone, therefore it was either not in her person or its battery was consumed. Either way, his sister's neglect to the only device of communication that they had was now getting on his nerves. Because, if something happened to her, especially at a time like this, he wouldn't forgive himself.

* * *

They were in his private quarters. The yellow light that emanated from two candles between them soothed the rather hostile and ragged face that Fukuzawa Yumi was contorting, as well as Kashiwagi Suguru's smooth, blank face. The six unfinished duplicates of Fukuzawa's _The Passing Wind_were between them, lying and lazily stacked on the smooth, unirritable tatami mat. In a farther distance, they seem to be having a meeting, formal in their position and manners, informal in the candled ambiance that enveloped the room. Informal because of the bed that was steps away from Kashiwagi.

Before each of them were two cups filled with tea. Neither minded it.

Both of them were assessing their temperaments. Neither was moving from his and her positions—their back were straight as a ramrod, their hands rested on their folded laps, their shoulders relaxed, and their eyes staring at each other. Pupils dilated. They both see how the light had impaired their vision by how their black pupils eclipsed the colors of their eyes—all he and she saw were immense black.

They were murderous, their stares at each other.

But in all their talk, mundane or important they were, she was always the first to give in to her impulse, to her feelings, whatever hostile or radical they may be. And it was always Suguru to react the same as he always did:with a question.

"Why did you do this?" She pointed at the stacked canvasses.

He replied with his usual blank acumen, not even phased by the implication she was poisonously darting. "I've always wanted to duplicate your work. It's obvious, Yumi. I told you, I admire them, didn't I?"

She looked at him darkly. "If this were your form of admiration for me and my talent, you are making a wrong impression. I am not flattered; I am frustrated."

"Frustrated? Isn't that such a mild word?"

"Why? Are you suggesting that I should hold a much deeper sentiment for you?"

She looked at his face and watched the candlelight dance on the contours of his face. She knew he was observing the same too.

It took a longer moment for him to speak again. "I am expecting that you'd hold a much greater reaction than this. This is your greatest work, your heart. I always thought that your over-protectiveness with it is the proof of your sentiment with it, like all of your works. Yet, this one is the closest, isn't it? But you are so calm."

She held her anger at bay. "You read me well, then why is it that I'm not doing what you've had expected me to do? What can you tell about that?"

"That you are restraining yourself, like you want yourself to do."

"You think you are above me," She exhaled, and then sneered at him, knowlingly, calculatingly. "You are such an arrogant man."

He produced the same face. "And yet you are trying to prove yourself to me, not to be so weak, unlike what you were in the past."

She will not ask the question. He will reveal this by himself. This is her resolution and her proof of winning. She would ask, if she knew she had won.

"You seemed to know everything. Tell me more of what you know."

His shoulders relaxed. "I know that this was not the way Fukuzawa Yumi should act when she saw that her painting is being duplicated by someone in the compound—rooms and corridors away from her. That it should be here all along, yet, where is the original, you wonder."

She agreed silently, letting his words hang with its importance.

He asked, "Do you feel betrayed?"

"I told you before that I never trusted you." She answered briefly.

"Yes, I perfectly remember that telephone conversation. But then, you pointed it out so forcefully. I am afraid to tell you, they're connected. Again, do you feel betrayed?"

Now, she couldn't find the answer.

Kashiwagi inhaled and looked at the duplicates with profound absence. "I always tell this to myself: the degree of trust you've invested is the degree of betrayal that you'd feel in the end. I have known this very much since childhood, and I know that you can tell that I don't . . . invest that much. But it is _in_ you, isn't it? You couldn't help giving that trust along with your sentiments, minute or overflowing they were, but it is _always_ there. That trust."

She shrugged, "I figured that much a long time ago, too. You don't have to lecture."

"I know. We both learn from the past. It makes us stronger. But then again, avoiding the question, in fact, showed the truth."

"That I felt betrayed? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes."

She scowled at him, dropping every syllable from her tongue with venom. "Right, what do you think I'd react otherwise? Yes, I felt betrayed, you don't have to drill that to me. You have the painting, which is very dear to me. That is my life. And it took me years to administer the hatred . . . _feelings _into that painting, over protecting it, then I'd find out that it's no longer in the wall where I want it to be? So, it is no wonder I'd feel that I want to murder you. To _skin_ you. You can see it in my eyes; I am that _expressive_."

He scowled back. "I can see that."

Then, she felt that the ball is in her court now. "Am I in some sort of a clever game? Because I haven't realized I'm in it, until now. I don't know what my part is. How am I in your game? Am I a pawn? A rook? A bishop? Your queen? Because I haven't been doing _anything_. Except mending those decrepit artworks, of course."

The word "decrepit" was selected to provoke a reaction from Suguru and it did in just a fraction of a second; the pupils of his eyes constricted.

She continued, gaining more courage and confidence as she focused on her goal _never_ to be provoked, "But that's the only thing that I do. I am not the queen, obviously; she does the most difficult and elaborate of jobs; not a rook either, I have not been protecting anything. The rest of the pieces were just as exciting but it's not me, not really. I'm interested in the _dullest_ ones: the King and a pawn. Which am I?"

"The King." He hinted.

"Oh, so there _is _a game."

"Yes, there is, and it isn't as elaborate as you thought, but it concerned more of . . . _sentiments_, which rather hurts the most."

She raised her arms, her palms facing upward, while she feigned a grin on her face, acting overly dramatic. "So, I am King! Am I worth protecting? Is this your idea of protection, stuffing me into the compound, giving me a mystery such as those Kinomoto paintings, and watch me dance in admiration to them?"

"You are entertaining to watch."

She gleamed, "And so are you, dear Knight. If this happened years ago, I would have shed more tears. You're right, I have this tendency to be fragile because of my feelings." Then, appearing smug, she illustrated more of her failures. "Look what happened to me when I was with Sachiko. But that was before, and now, looking back, you coming into my life and the rest that happened before that and until now, not everything is coincidence. I have the right to know."

"Know what, Yumi?"

"To know my place in your game."She said. It was the first time she dropped her pitch much lower to emphasize what she wanted. "You said: it wasn't elaborate. You said: it involved sentiment. Am I correct to assume that this involved the Ogasawara family?"

He was always mimicking her. He said in a low voice, "Tell me about your assumptions."

Her voice turned serious, grave. "When I asked you if there was a person you hated so much, you said there was. Everyone had someone to hate, but not with you. You are the sort of person who don't express sentiments; you claimed that Touma Ryu is your best friend, yet you're not as vocal as him. Shimata-san undoubtedly cared for you in a paternal sort of way, but you don't seem to give that sentiment back. Nothing seemed to touch you. Not even when you told me you're attracted to me. I wasn't even convinced. But when I mention Ogasawara Kyouiichi, your eyes,"

She looked at them squarely. "Your stare mirrors mine."

It was hatred and bitterness.

She continued, not letting go of the eye contact that they established since she figured him out. "You began to be so concerned to the extent of forcing me to trust you. You called me in the middle of the night just to say that to me. What? Is that your final words before you engage to battle into something so colossal as Ogasawara Kyouiichi? Because hurting him means piercing his weakness. And you told me how family is the foundation of his stubborn beliefs, at the same time, his weakness. Thus, are you going to involve the granddaughter? Are you going to screw my life as well? If you want to settle debts to that family, by all means." She gestured a welcoming hand. Her lips twisted downward, not giving a care.

But she carried on, with a scowl. "But you don't have to include me. I can be very emotionally supportive, but I will not stoop so low to even _touch_ them. Is that why you called me that night to talk about _trust_? To drop breadcrumbs as if you were doing me a favor?"

"I am doing you a favor." He deadpanned, which caused Yumi to roll her eyes.

"What kind of favor?" She asked back automatically, but she whisked the question away by making an unpleasant noise. She revised, "By stealing my work?"

"I did not steal your work, I duplicated it."

She rested her hands on her lap. "Ah, so you are the other artist in this compound. Unbelievable. That's why you were too _invested _with my work, it's itching you, isn't it? To comment while I'm working. Those times when you go inside my room and inspect the unfinished Kinomoto business, you wanted to hold a brush and do it yourself, do you? You are a fan, but you don't want to reveal that you had the talent."

He interrupted, and while she wanted to bashed him with words, his crisp voice stopped her from doing so. "And now, you saw it. I would be lying if I don't want this to happen—why else would I even put my work here in the compound. It was always a fantasy of mine to show you something that I personally am proud of. What do you think about them? Did I impress you?"

She gritted at his arrogance. "_Six_ of _unfinished_. How could you impress me with incomplete work? You wanted to make an impression, but it isn't here. You made another one."

"How can you tell?"

Yumi explained, as if he were an idiot. "The stands. All six of them were upturned to the wall, covered with cloths. Two stands were empty, and there were where your seventh picture and my painting were placed before they were gone."

"You thought this over." He mused.

She corrected. "I am not stupid. Your world inside that room is my world as well. Where is it?"

"It was destroyed."

It made her heart stop. The thought of it destroyed—were they referring to the same item? Because if they did, then, there was no point of this conversation. She would go straight into _skinning _him. "Excuse me?!"

He answered, "The seventh, I destroyed it. So, it's just the six, unfinished paintings now. Now, tell me, how did I do?"

"Do not make this conversation longer as it is."

He demanded. "Tell me, how did I do."

"I won't, unless you answer my question."

Then, Suguru gauged her once more. (Yumi admitted that he had the talent to fucking sway the conversation) "How are you so confident that I'll be obliging with your demands?"

She answered, "I am confident. One thing I know the moment I saw this room, is that you keep it all to yourself. If ever there were an underground room in this compound, you won't use it to hide your secrets, no, not this one. An artist always wants attention . . . he always wants an audience . . . audience that he respected. Hence, this place. You let no one in your compound in such a long period of time, except me. Or that's what I know. If someone else had been here like me, that person also holds great respect from you. So,

"Aside from me, there are others who know about your talent. Shimata-san must be very, _very_ proud of you. But any case, it doesn't matter, because you only wanted me to see them. When you said, 'No, you made it,' clearly dawned that conclusion to me.

"It is adjacent to your room, barely locked, even though it is only accessible through here. You sometimes told me to walk around the compound yet I usually don't because I don't have the time, and because I don't want to. Just this time, after I got back from Musashino, when I was frustrated not to get back to work, and just wander around. You know that, do you? My actions?

"And when you saw me here, you weren't hostile, you were not trying to keep it from me. In fact, you welcomed me. If you were trying to hold your anger because I discovered your secret, you weren't showing anymore betraying detail in your actions. You wanted me _here_. And the way you want me to make an assessment of your duplication of _The Passing Wind_, I say, you wanted my acknowledgement. You wanted me to _recognize_ you. Not as my employer, but as an artist."

"You are King, as I said." Suguru finally spoke. "You nailed it, my weaknesses. The yearning for an audience; my admiration to your work. It completely reinforces your ego, doesn't it? When you translated and told those things to me, I completely thought that you are finally accepting what _that_ work means to you, but as you continued, I read that you're not confronted yet, with your feelings."

Yumi frowned. "What are you talking about? Isn't the course of the conversation about _you_?"

"At first I thought that you'd burn those six incomplete replicas, but it's still here, in front of me, moderately touched. I saw you looking at some of them, particularly the sixth, because it's the most proper copy that I've done among them. You were shocked when you found them, you plan to burn them out of pure anger, but you didn't. Instead, you took your time, until this late hour of the night and waited for me. You waited to see my reactions. And while you wait, you looked at them, one by one."

It was now Kashiwagi's turn to volley. His face was showing calculating knowledge as the candlelight danced to the frame of his face.

"Clearly, you were flattered when someone had been duplicating your painting, just like this small, perverse pleasure when you find out that somebody stole it instead of a Higeshimaya hanging adjacently from your work, which was basically what the people usually prefer to look at. There is a deeper ambition to be the best, to be one of _them_, yet you are stuck. You are stuck to your past and the pain that reinforces you to do these masterpieces. You just couldn't move on, because you are afraid of what would happen if you let go of your bitterness. It won't make you _special_ anymore. When hatred is released away from you, you couldn't think of a way to underpin any inspiration. But either way, you will be stuck, just like how stuck you are that for the past two years: _you've done nothing._"

Disappointment showed in his face, but he did not rub it to Yumi by showing a conceited smirk like he used to do. Instead, he continued on—his eyes piercing her.

"I admit that I admire you, and I admire your talent. That's why I'm so impatient to see how you will manage if you were to get past this bullshitting stage and get on with whatever that is left in you. It's some sort of a fanatic fantasy, of me getting you somewhere out of the pitiful state you are in, because a fan feels what the object of their obsession feels. A fan wanted to know you, to be with you, to let you recognize him, and to its most extreme: to be in your shoes. If you did sell your all your works all these years, I would have bought them all. But you didn't. You just wanted the world to see your heart, to sympathize with you, but you don't want them to touch _you._"

She cut, "Is that what you feel when you stole my painting?"

He quickly corrected. "I didn't _steal_ it. Even though I was there in the gallery, I am not responsible for that. I had done what I wanted to do. But, nevertheless, you ask the wrong questions."

"Then, is that what you felt when you were copying my painting?" She tried to finish the sentence, just to get over his scrutiny. She knew she was being lambasted, but I all hit through. Kashiwagi's words—someone she just had known for months, had been screwing her head as if he had known her ever since.

He smirked, "Oh, I felt _you_. I felt your heart. I felt your enormous _sentiment_ for Ogasawara Sachiko and Hinomura Takuya, those who had mandated you to experience what is most natural in you, and exceptionally hate it, at the same time. Do you want me to continue?"

She didn't answer; he pursued.

"I _felt_ your lust for her. I felt your desire to tear her apart, limb by limb, and at the same time to embrace her. Not anyone can see that, Yumi, but not when the audience feels what you feel. It's actually simple, basic and primal; it's all in the picture: the naked woman, the wind, the degrading flesh of her legs, streaming up her thighs, eating her from her feet upwards. And that woman was loving it. Disgusting in its depiction and meticulousness, but horrifically erotic want her to feel your perverse _sentiment,_ and what it does to your body. It eats you, slowly, but my, you _love_ it. And you wanted her to feel that too, even in vain. The pain she had inflicted you, and the pleasure that you get from that pain—like doses of coccaine that runs through your blood . . . it makes you escape from reality. You love it when it is in your veins, of what it does to your senses, but does it love you back?"

He paused. And when she found that she couldn't contradict Kashiwagi to save her remaining dignity, he continued. But in a milder manner than before. He was showing concern.

He said, slowly, testing once more. "You wonder. You wonder what in the world is wrong with you, what in the world is lacking in you, that they never stay. You have done everything to deserve their love, yet, what seems to be lacking? I felt that when I am doing my best to perfect my duplication, seven of canvasses—each one I sacrificed too much of sleep and time, but all that time, I _felt_ you. In those seven trials, I had torn the _heart_ out of you."

"No, you didn't." She gritted. He doesn't _know_ what she was feeling.

He smiled wickedly, looking at the stacked paintings before them, "That is what I am hoping for: that I won't belong to those people who don't appreciate you, and affected you somehow. For one thing: they enjoyed how selfless you were."

She tried not to flinch at his last assessment. Then, he looked at her once more, squarely into her eyes. "But I rather have you selfish, cynical, and conceited."

It should take time to heal reopened wounds once more, and that time took all noise that they should have made. Everything stopped after his admittance. He stayed quiet, waiting for an answer, while she delayed her reply, to measure her control. Each examined his and her opponent, gauging each other's reactions, trying not to fold at whatever game they were playing.

Finally, she acknowledged him, as an idol does to her follower.

"You impress me."

"Thank you."

She tore her stare away from him. She played her forefinger onto the rim of the neglected teacup, sliding its tip clockwise. "We both know what we think of each other now. Isn't that a measure of equality? I commend you for that. I am easy to read, am I not?"

"You're not easy to read."

"I think you reiterated it perfectly."

He countered. "We did the same, you and I. But then, why couldn't I know what you want to do about _The Passing Wind_?"

"Why indeed? It wasn't here. All that is in front of me now are your unfinished, imperfect duplicates. I would feel nothing even if you show me thousands of unfinished pictures of my work." She said, grimly.

"Then, what if we set them aside," he said as he stood up and walked at a nearby wall, and slid of one sliding door, revealing a compartment. He pulled a crate covered with white sheet and walked back to his seat. He put the six canvasses away and replaced them with the object that he extracted from the compartment. He continued, "and examine this, for a moment."

He revealed the object as he unfolded away the cloth's corner after another, his delicate hands like waves as he revealed it. He announced, "The Passing Wind, made by Fukuzawa Yumi at Musashino in 1997, style: traditional."

He sighed, "Tell me, are you happy to see it now?"

_Was he . . . embarrassed?_

Her eyes bore no more color except the darkest shade of black of her pupils as she bent over. She slipped a finger on the handle of the candlerholder and hovered it on the painting. Her eyes dilated more, as she scanned each stroke of her most horrific painting; her head moving, floating above the canvass, like a snake sensing the ground with her forked tongue. Kashiwagi looked from above, seeing how she engrossed herself into the ground—a true artist, he wanted to say out loud, because that was also the way his mother inspected a painting: eyes almost grazing the plane of the canvass, nose smelling the remnant of vapor in the medium used, and the tip of her fingers (and sometimes, her nose) touching at least a centimeter to validate its planar dimensions.

Then, she lifted her head and poised herself rigidly, her lips smiling.

"This is my work."

"I suppose it is." He agreed, but a hint of scowl etched his lips.

She smirked as she tore her gaze away from his eyes and settled the candle to its original position. She used her left hand to lift the now-lukewarm Japanese teacup and raise it to her lips. She said, "You must have done a great deal of sacrifices to acquire this."

"I have," he said, his eyes focused on her moving lips.

She looked at the painting once more, the fringe of her eyelashes unhurriedly sliding halfway— almost seductively and sedated; andthe fingers of her right hand lingering a caress on the painting before her. She spoke in a breathy whisper, private, feminine:

"The brush strokes . . . the lively, sickening color of yellow, oh, I _missed_ them. Even the texture—I've never touched it ever since I hung it at the Nihonga section of the gallery—it never felt so real."

He smiled slowly.

"I've never been more proud of you, Suguru." The "king" complemented.

_Okaa-sa—_

The pupils of his eyes constricted once more, as if reminiscing a significant memory that rendered Suguru to shattered his control for a second—his real emotions resurfacing onto his previously calculating face—and struggled to keep his cool the next second. All the while Yumi observed him, and read that her words triggered a delicate nerve in is brain. She let the grave moment—long as it felt it was—passed them both, and let Suguru's realization of a memory and Yumi's discovery of another weakness lingered heavily in the air.

It was the first time tonight that she called him by his first name.

Yet, she continued on, with the sole purpose of winning this game.

"You have done the perfect thing, _everything_, but _The Passing Wind_ is my heart, Suguru."

_. . . the remnant of vapor . . ._

"I know it when it's in my hands."

The _hands_ that held the Japanese clay teacup had shifted a degree that made lukewarm liquid contained in it to pour on the painting, drops trickling down from the rim to the canvass. Suguru watched it thoroughly as Yumi let the cup hover around the dimensions of the artwork, liquid spattering on their folded legs. One droplet even touched Kashiwagi's right cheek.

She said, "You asked me of what I would do to the painting once I found it. You asked me of what I should do—to what you termed—_move on_. This is my reply, Kashiwagi-san. You have done a good job fooling me."

She finished pouring the whole contents of the cup.

Suguru smiled. In this game they knew she had won, as what she had demostrated theatrically in front of him—an example of arrogance, confidence and resolve. But she was taken aback by the way he smiled as she poured the contents onto it, as if he was the one winning. She decided not to show that little observation and its corresponding reaction.

She settled the cup on her side. She would ask him where her painting was. It was her reward for all of this.

But what she didn't notice after her momentary lapse because of her triumph, was the flicker of shadows and movements—Kashiwagi Suguru moving from her seat to reach for her shoulders. She felt as sting, very close of how an ant bites a delicate skin. She gasped in shock, but she knew Suguru had done something. With that, she looked at Suguru's face for a sign of reaction as he scooped his arms to her upper back to support her.

"I'm happy that you recognized my work, Yumi. And your move, which proved to me how strong you are."

The sting on her upper arm begain to fade, but the strength of her arms and legs began to dissolve, numbing any pyschosomatic effort to move them. In her mind, nothing was more important than the question: "Where is my painting?"

"I don't have your painting, not anymore."

"SAY THAT AGAIN!" She warned, tried, even when she felt her mouth watered. She felt like vomiting. But then her voice had shaken the entire room with its feroceousness. "Say that again, and if you're lying to me . . ."

His voice was calming, almost soothing; out of the context of what he was saying: "I am not lying to you. I don't have it anymore. Any more than I want it with me."

"Where . . . is it?!"

"Someone needed it more than I do. You'll see it again, don't worry, but it won't be from me."

"What . . ."

With her discovering him as the painter, it was enough for her to complete almost the entire puzzle. As much as she tried to separate herself from her feelings, it was the same for him. Ogasawara Kyouiichi was despairingly important to him, as much as Ogasawara Sachiko was to her. She never knew his history, and probably would ever be in the shadows of the future, but she knew when one is invested to eliminating sentiment. How it does to a person. It makes you shoulder the past even more, to feel like how it felt before, hence not entirely resulting to the apathy that you desperately want to reach.

She remembered what she told him and what he told her a while ago, and how true were they when they had captured the truth.

"You will know what will happen in the future. She always tells you that, didn't she? That she'll return the painting." He said.

Yet all her faculties seemed to be going down, and her senses couldn't fuction properly anymore, thus her inability to grasp everything that he was saying. Yet, she knew . . . she knew what he was talking about.

"Does that rob me . . . right to take revenge on her?" She smirked, almost joking.

"What you would do in the near future will be your vengeance."

Her vision become flooded with diffused light, unable to distinguish shapes and sizes anymore. Her head was spinning, and she felt arms on under her knees and her back, trasporting her to a much more comfortable place. She felt softness on her back, a dry, cool texture upon her forehead, and immediate warmth from her neck to her toes.

She still struggled just to get a little clue . . . "In this game . . . what're you?"

"I am a pawn. Always am." He said solemnly.

His voice was near her lips.

She frowned. "You'll regret this . . . motherfucking bastard." She slurred, in frantic hopes of having the last word, even though she knew that eventually, he would have it instead.

"Correct choice of words. But tomorrow," he whispered as he arranged the pillow beneath her head and look at her as sleep began to seize her, "everything will end."

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you read the whole ordeal slowly and thoroughly, as I had repeatedly revised this for your reading. Too much neuron, morality, patience for my boss' mood cycles_, _and beauty sleep had been sacrificed for the sake of this chapter. I hope for your kind consideration, please. :)

Can you guess how many duplicates _exactly_ did he make? He said he duplicated "seven trials." For those who guessed another number before Suguru revealed the last one, you saw thru me again.

I love writing Yumi, even though she was drugged in the end. I have a question though: should I change the rating? I am sure that the sexual situations in the past chapters are relatively Teens, but the mature language, do they still include in the range of that Rating? I mean, Yumi had been spitting expletives in a much insulting range than anyone else in this story, and it does bother me a little. In their conversation, however, I think Kashiwagi was the first to exploit an expletive into his sentence (Yumi wins in cursing-control department). I could be flagged for this, God help me. Opinions, anyone?

What do you think of Yumi? Suguru? In general?


	24. Chapter 24

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_[PROLOGUE]_

Shimazu Yoshino could hurt anyone with either her tongue or her hand, but all she did was stand in front of her when she heard her say:

"You should prevent her brother from talking to her."

She wanted to slap her, repeatedly, but all she could do was to make sure that her feet were on the ground. Her knees should not betray her now, because if it did, then many of the questions that were on her mind would never be voiced out and be asked. All this time, neither of them knew the reasons. All they did was to gather facts extracted from different sources and accounts, all severely interconnected and disjointed at the same time, and make them sensible to create a big picture. All those weeks of thinking were void when she heard her say:

"Yuuki-san must not know that Yumi has found it."

But she slapped her that moment when she repeated what she said. Everything that she said was tantamount to the same idea. It was repetitive. It was deliberately sewn into different choice of words and phrases, but it was the same idea. It was for them not to know the truth.

"WHY?!" Yoshino exclaimed. It hurt more to demand an answer than to slap her face. "Why are you involved in this? Why are you doing this?!"

Yoshino noticed the bleak expression etched on her face. It was hard, so fucking hard to slap a friend. It was so hard to trust a person who she had thought had betrayed them. She couldn't trust a person that kept the truth from her. She screamed, "Why _you_, of all people, why you?!"

"Because I was asked to do it." That person admitted. "I was needed. I am needed. And I couldn't take the sadness that I felt whenever I see the one I love so sad."

If ever she had heard these ten years ago, she would have bought this much easier.

Yoshino's eyes revealed the decision that was laid upon her hands as she heard her voice broken by tears as she answered Yoshino's questions. She realized that she would be entangled with the deception, betrayal, and treachery. That she couldn't look at Yumi and Yuuki's eyes after this, even though she said that:

"It is for their own good. You'll see. We reap what we sow. But what is important is the end, whatever the means."

She said those so lyrically, so magically, that Yoshino couldn't even look at her. Everything about her shone, her love covered with the darkness of ambiguousness was shining though its cracks. That someone would be forced to eat his or her own tail. That someone would take all the blame.

But, even with what Yoshino had found out, she couldn't see if this would change anything. When Yoshino last saw Yumi, she thought that nothing would ever change her friend, nothing—not even her painting. She felt the imminent tragedy lying in the future.

But she said that there was hope. All Yoshino could do was to believe her.

It was always hard to slap a true friend.

* * *

CHAPTER 24

* * *

"We were wrong about her; of about she was going to do. She told Shimazu-san and Fukuzawa-kun about the little stunt in the Ogasawara Mansion."

Teacups were lifted from their saucers as he began to speak. Even with the poor lighting of the immaculate room, they could still see the steam rising up the air, gathering pools and pools of clouds, until it faded away.

"Oh, that isn't a problem. Sachiko was bound to tell anyone she could trust. She was vulnerable that way. Friends do stick around, even with her attitude. Surprisingly, it was not Rei-san, but her cousin."

He rolled his sleeves, then braced himself and stretched his left arm.

"But the brother was there. He is sure to come to his sister and reveal everything."

Simultanous sounds of _pop_ emanated the room.

"Then, good. Let's see how she reacts."

A chuckle drifted with the steam rising, as well as a pop of something that had been hit in a rather intensified speed. Something small, circular, solid. A rough scratch was heard. Then, a sudden movement.

_Pop_. _Pop_. _Pop_.

He looked at the liquid that contained in the cup that he was holding. This was not the right drink for this certain occasion. This should involve alcohol.

"That would change the pace of the game."

Then, another swing was heard. Then, two—three—no, four solid pops until a graze between leather and something close to a glass. No, something else. Something unbreakable.

"That would put us on the spotlight."

"We always love problems like this, the joy of being at the edge."

He placed the teacup onto the saucer with a small _tink_, left on the elevated gutter. It was his turn.

"They knowing about our little secret won't change anything. The police can't change anything. Shimazu-san couldn't change anything. Even with our insurance, we could still pursue the plan, as we always do, on our own."

* * *

Great art is always stolen and seldom found.

* * *

"Yuuki-san!"

"What?!"

"I think we should abandon this. Let this go. Let this deceit be left behind."

He was almost running to his car as he explained quickly, "Touma Ryu has the painting. He made a duplicate so to spite with Touma Sachiko and my sister! He knew that they were lovers in the past, and was enraged when his wife is once more reaching out to an old lover! This was to spite them!"

"I know!" She grabbed his arm to stop him from reaching the door. "I know that! But don't you see? Sachiko-san would not testify against him! We had no proof that he stole the painting. We have no proof that it was still in his possession! We couldn't know anything about him because there was no case! Even though Sachiko-san called us to determine if what he destroyed was Yumi's painting, she wouldn't even speak ill against her husband. Don't you see?! We are pawns of the game that we never like to play!"

"I cannot just sit here—"

Her grip on his arm was becoming too painful. "I can't too. But I have no choice! I told you before, that Yumi-san's painting would appear before us before we know it, because this is always personal. Her works had been duplicated. We could have a search warrant but we couldn't file without proper evidence! And that evidence lies within Sachiko-san's statements. She could be charged because she was keeping vital information, but that's all what we could do. Contacting us was something that she supposedly ought not to do, but in panic, she did. If she were smart enough, she would have kept this to herself, and look for it herself. But there was someone pulling the strings here.

"Yumi and Hinomura had given up their cause of looking for it. When Hinomura decided that enough was enough, Yumi did not bother take measures to continue the investigation. I could look, but where would this take me? Could I get Touma-san and throw him to jail? I couldn't. Not when they have the money to buy Yumi's loss and bail themselves out. If we couldn't find them red-handed, then our own professions would be at stake. Can't you see my point?

"We can't do anything for Yumi, thus we wait. We wait for them, until the game finished."

"I couldn't just sit—"

"I couldn't do anything, too. No matter how hard we try, we are weak against them."

"We always think we are all under the law. But the law itself could be penetrated, wounded, mended. I understand you, but how can you be so sure that it will return?" He shouted.

* * *

Sometimes, even the most pious and principled could have no other choice but be consumed by the system. _Even._

* * *

The size of the room was as two-thirds wide of an olympic-sise basketball court.

Touma Sachiko stood in front of a long table that occuppied fourty people, all vice presidents of various sectors and sections and divisions of the Ogasawara Zaibatsu, based on Tokyo. On the far side of the conference room, Ogasawara Kyouiichi, on his wheelchair, was watching the rest of the fourty people seating, evident in their faces that Touma Ryou, who was one seat away from Sachiko and Kashiwagi Suguru, had been gaining the upper hand in the discussion for the next President and CEO of the company. The battle was between Touma Sachiko and Kashiwagi Suguru.

Kyouiichi was silent as he watched through his thick spectacles, boring his eyes on each and every one present in the meeting. _Everyone_ is present, as he ordered, and every one he shall examine, everyone who had sold himself to Touma Ryu. No one had known that he had Kashiwagi as his leutenant, or the other way around.

Either way, they all see Kashiwagi, the strange, unfamiliar person, who walked in the company building who were about to swing the whole room to surrender to the leadership that he was betting for.

What was Sachiko had not done was to reveal that she knew Touma Ryu was involved in this, which Kyouiichi realized as some sort of loyalty. If it were for Ryu, why just now? Kyouiichi questioned annoyingly. Why now, and not before? He watched Ryu's passivity like a sitting duck on a field of vultures and eagles. But Sachiko was now finished with the presumptuous and mendacious report just for formality before the real war in the conference room began.

But when two hours of simply covering their tracks, protecting interests and betraying allies, Sachiko had won the argument. She had acquired the most number of votes. She had revealed secrets and protected the family. She had raised his grandfather's name and protected Touma Ryu while she lambasted each and every one who sided with Kashiwagi Suguru. She revealed what was essential, but hidden what she could use in later future. Everything was planned, and everything that Kyouiichi and Sachiko had countered and anticipated had been drowned away by their preparedness.

Everyone in this room were climbing in a much steeped cliff, and everyone were pulling others' feet downward, thowing them to an unknown pit. In the end, everyone wanted to become the authority. They thought that Kashiwagi, that young capitalist from Kyoto, would be their avenue to the top, either by using him or him using them.

Which would never happen.

Perhaps they worked much better as a team and not as adversaries. Perhaps when two minds of the Ogasawara blood had reconciled and mended, they could defeat everyone, even the superb machinations done by Kashiwagi Suguru.

Even though he was left unscathed by the whole ordeal, hidden in between his pawns' failures and accountabilities, Kyouiichi knew that this matter won't be left unsolved—Suguru would pay his debt.

But he did get away. In the end, he penetrating into the company proved how many was such rats and snakes inside the closest circle in his corporation, who was seduced by Kashiwagi's promise of power and money once he took over. Every name that Sachiko had extracted, every information that she had gathered, were marked forever in Kyouiichi's head.

When Kyouiichi announced that Sachiko would be replacing him, Kashiwagi stopped his ministrations and settled quietly on his seat, satisfied. His face was as blank as ever, as if gaining that announcement from Kyouiichi was his only plan after all. Touma Ryu smirked when that happened.

They had won, but like all wars, they were going to enjoy the spoils. Those who lost would be left with nothing, and would still be extorted until they were dry.

But Kyouiichi had promised. Kyouiichi had a word with Sachiko.

He would give her what she deserved.

She would be taking over in the next year. She would handle all that Ogasawara Kyouiichi would leave behind when he retired. A year would be enough for the transition, for the transfer of power and authority. A year to sort out what had been wrong in the company before he could retire and she could take settle debts, to increase once the year had finished, everyone would welcome the new President and CEO, and everyone would do as she said.

Everyone would welcome a new generation of the Ogasawara, the fourth generation, the first woman who would handle the company with a fist that matched the past generations. All the while, she had done everything for the family. She had done everything to protect it.

That was the only thing that he taught her, in all those games that they played since she was a child. And it finally planted, sprouted, grew and bore fruit in her head.

She had become what he wanted her to be. After all, it was for the family.

* * *

Touma Sachiko's secretary, a tall, lithe, and pretty woman in a pale pink dress suit, had been at the door of the conference room ever since the meeting started at a very early of time. She was supposed to be waiting for her employer in her office once the long day conference was finished, but she felt that something was wrong.

Three days . . . three days has it been ever since she was summoned by Touma Sachiko and had done various tasks that were next to impossible if not for Sachiko-sama's quick directive. She knew that her employer had not eaten and slept very well in those three days, not when she compared it with how Touma Sachiko had been taking care of herself in the past weeks.

She had known secrets, scandals that could topple everyone's world, but her employer just heard it with blank eyes, thin lips and tangled fingers, listening and reading to horrid information. All she could do was to shut her mouth, listen, and keep them as secrets. It was as if she was never there.

She intended to stay out of it, to remove herself from Sachiko-sama and her machinations, but she was ordered to stay put. Whether that was because of what she knew or that because Sachiko-sama trusted her, she couldn't tell.

Something did change ever since that day when she was ordered to leave early from the office, leaving Sachiko-sama on her own.

Sachiko-sama's secretary never left her post until her employer leaves the building. She never did, but three days ago, she was summoned in the Ogasawara Mansion and found her so worked up, alert and stern, as she'd never been before. And this was the result.

Sachiko-sama will be the more than just a vice-president in one of the highest divisions in the headquarters; she was to assume her grandfather's position in a year.

Thus came Touma Sachiko bursting out of the conference hall triumphant in completing her objectives. In one swift move, her secretary had stood from her seat and proceeded on reminding her once more of the iteneraries for the remaining day, but Sachiko-sama waved a hand and instantly, she knew that they were to be cancelled. Her employer was rushing to the hall, while her husband, Touma Ryu-sama called her from the room. She did not even bat an eye nor turn back, but walked away with several documents in tow. The secretary now said, "Sachiko-sama, I think it's time for me to get these documents from you. They're heavy."

Sachiko-sama gave her half of the documents, anyway. But as she took the elevator, leaving the rest of the conference's participants away, she comanded, "I want to be alone in my office for a moment. Tell that to everyone who'd want to see me. Not even my husband."

"Yes, Sachiko-sama."

"Good. Now, let's leave those bastards alone. Shall we?" She quipped.

"Very well, Vice-president."

Once they were in the office, the secretary left her alone, and safeguarded the entrance. She had called a staff to prepare tea before they could reach the office, and as Touma Sachiko's staff, tea was already prepared and ready to be served. But when Sachiko sat on her chair, with a tea cup on her hand, she commanded, "Leave me alone."

And they did.

Several minutes later, Touma Ryu came into the floor and wanted an audience with her. The secretary didn't know how this harmless, pleasant man that she was acquainted with had shown differently—fierce, dangerous, livid—when she repeatedly told him that _no one_ was to see her. It was an order, an order she can't disobey, not with the state of how Sachiko had commanded it.

Next thing they heard was a sound of breaking inside the room. A woman's fierce cry tore at the halls of the office. With that, the secretary had no choice but to open the doors and see what happened.

Touma Sachiko was lying on the floor, consciousness lost. There was blood on the carpet floor, mingling with the tea that spilled from the shattered teacups.

* * *

Ogasawara Kyouiichi was in his office, sitting at the chair before his long, wooden table, leaning to see the painting hanging on the wall behind his chair. It was a picture of the Ogasawara Mansion, the very heart of him. He looked at it silently, his face nostalgic and sentimental.

Kashiwagi Suguru was sitting before hm, also looking at the picture.

"What do you really want from me, Kashiwagi-san?" He finally asked; his voice a little soft, silent, even for a man like him.

Kashiwagi turned to him from the picture to answer the man, but unlike during their last meeting, he looked like him silently as he measured how rhetorical the question was. Kyouiichi regarded him by taking his spectacles away from his eyes, and waited for an answer.

"I think you know the answer." He smiled as he spoke. "Wheelchair doesn't suit you."

"Doctors' orders. Only they can order me around at this point these days, because they know my body more than myself. Such boldness, arrogance." Kyouiichi answered, grin on his face. "But damn them and their insistence."

Then, he flipped the lid of a wooden box filled with expensive cigars. "Do you mind?" He asked Kashiwagi and was given a reply with a wave of a hand. He then sliced the tip of the cigar with a cutter. He, then, pulled a long matchstick from another box adjacent to the cigar's and produced fire to be left consumed as he dabbed the cigar through the flame.

His breath produced a rich, gray smoke through his nose and mouth.

A cup of tea was served for each of them. Suguru sipped his own as Kyouiichi signaled when he tried to reach out for his own cup. He said, "I swear I could do on my own with a cane, but they don't understand. A man needs to move all the time. A _man_ like _me_ needs to move all the time. Not sit here and rot my bottom and my legs."

"Stubborn as a mule." The younger man commented. "But you have your physical therapists to do those for you, haven't you?"

"They think I am senile. That's why those bastards floors down think I can no longer continue my career in this office. They thought that when you barge into this office to take what rightfully belonged to the Ogasawara family, they took the chance of betraying me, just because of what you could offer. They weren't in this company far too long than my former associates and employees, but they had the audacity to take my share of the pie. Because they think, I don't have any regard for my heir. They think that I am weak to face the truth. I am not weak!" He declared before Suguru, slamming his fist on the hard wood of his immaculate, old table. "I can still work five or seven years more!"

Ogasawara looked at Kashiwagi viciously. The young man eyed him with any trace of neither pity nor sentiment, and remained blank.

"But why did you decide to give it to her?" Kashiwagi asked.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" Through his suddenly wet throat, he groaned.

"Oh, I had no opinion about that. I only did what I enjoyed to do. You people are very adorable to watch." He sneered. Then he finished the rest of his cup and settled it down to the saucer near him.

Kyouiichi asked, distracted, "Do you want a second helping?" When he reached for the intercom for his PA to assist Kashiwagi, he was stopped by the young man.

"No, that won't do. I'll be mother." Kashiwagi said.

Then, he watched Kashiwagi stood from his seat on the sofa set and retrieve his and Kyouiichi's cup. Kyouiichi eyed him suspiciously, and Kashiwagi just rolled his eyes in displeasure, "I won't poison you—_for heaven's sake_." He said drammatically. "Your humiliation today when you gave your position up was enough for me to last a lifetime. Killing you would be much messier. And boring."

He poured the tea from the teakettle, fresh and steaming hot, walked around the table, and bent a little to place Kyouiichi's cup in front of him. Then, he went back to his chair and enjoyed his own second helping. Then, he started, "You know, I would want to have Shimata-san with me, just like the rest of those men in the conference—their PAs around at the snap of their fingers, but I won't be too harsh on him."

Kyouiichi's face depicted a person trying to remember a memory. "Shimata-san . . . he's one of the branch family, isn't he?"

"Adopted. But he loved Kinomoto so passionately that he looked for me after I was taken away." Kashiwagi added, blowing the steam gently from his cup.

"He, then, was like . . . a father to you." Kyouiichi gulped.

Kashiwagi smirked, "No. He never assumed such a thing. Because I don't want him to. I only had one father, and that was Kashiwagi Otou-sama. Blood ties means nothing to me."

"Then what happened to Setsuna-san? Or to your mother in the Kashiwagi household? Who took the role of _mother_?"

Kyouiichi smirked, then his lips spouted a full snigger, then a laugh. Kashiwagi appeared not surprised with his reaction; he sipped once more. It seemed that Kashiwagi decided not to answer that question, which said much or nothing about his true intentions of being here. Was he here as an expy of his mother, or was he here for himself?

"We are the same, you and I." He leaned on his chair, rested his elbows in its arms, and locked his fingers. "It means everything to us."

Kashiwagi poured a little emotion into his words as he said, "Blood differs from _family_."

"True."

Yet, how did Kashiwagi had planned and anticipated the outcomes by just assuming their actions? What was in Kashiwagi, or what did he know?

Kashiwagi asked, because he had nothing else to lose anyway. "Did you plan this? I was so surprised that you announced to the board that you'd be passing the torch to your granddaughter in less than a year. Even Ryu-san was surprised at your decision."

"I just did what you did not expect. Such action is one of the many ways to win, Suguru-kun, remember that." Kyouiichi replied.

He smiled as silence enveloped the office, seemingly emphasizing every word that he was about to tell the old man. "Yet, it must have hurt when you turned it over to her. She's still young to assume such a pressuring position. And you don't have a male heir. Your last hope for one had gone away, taken by his weakness, and came to her because he couldn't handle being with you anymore."

"Tooru is weak." He spat.

"So, was choosing his wife over your orders weak?"

* * *

Tooru wasn't perpetually gone out of the lives of the Ogasawara family; no, he wasn't. Neither was Sayako.

Sayako had a weak health, and it has been ever since Ogasawara Sachiko was born. It would take a toll for her to conceive once more for a boy that Tooru would have wanted, but then, she was always so eager, so incline to please. That even when Kyouiichi decided that the city life was no longer an option for Sayako (such absence in the society is better than performing in social functions so pathetically) she was taken away.

Or, she ran away.

Divorce was never an option. No one should ever have that mistake in the family where choosing a wife or husband mattered like a major business venture.

When she was gone, not a word was heard from her, not even Tooru, who was out of the country for two months. Both of them seemed not to care for each other anymore, as the household staff noticed whenever both were in the mansion. But, it was what they expected of him, because that was also what the family patriarch was doing—he was not present in the house where it mattered.

He was as cold with his wife, Sachiko Ojou-sama's grandmother.

Sachiko was still studying when it happened. She was still wearing the dark green Lillian uniform when Sayako seized to exist in the mansion. She had a pretty smile on her face until she heard that her mother had gone away.

It was Oji-sama who she called first after she found out. He gave no explanation, no pleasant reason, or a convincing lie to make her feel better. Instead, he said, "Ask your father."

She never did. She knew that Sayako left because she couldn't handle anymore the humiliation, the disgrace against her pride. She was the wife, but it was not her who Tooru was with. It was not she who Tooru had sharing his problems. It was not she who was encouraging Tooru to be what the family patriarch would have wanted him to be. For her, she thought she was a liability. She was useless.

But Sachiko understood her. She would have run away with her, if Okaa-sama had taken Sachiko with her. If she knew Okaa-sama's plans.

Sachiko never did ask her father where she went. She never asked Otou-sama when he'd come back after work, when he would leave again for work.

Sachiko didn't care that Otou-sama existed, until he left two months ago.

* * *

Sachiko had cried when she received a letter from Okaa-sama weeks before. Okaa-chan did not forget her, even when she went away. She was in good health, but it ached because Okaa-chan missed her terribly. Okaa-chan had nothing to do but to watch her every move, look at the television whenever Sachiko appeared. She cut every clip from the newspaper that wrote about her, bad or good. She even wanted to see her, but she decided not to, not when her grandfather was always at their tails.

Sachiko never replied to the letters at first, thinking that Okaa-chan should have taken Sachiko with her, but that was long ago. When she was in college, she started to write back once or twice a year. But when she was married to Touma Ryu, she stopped.

Okaa-chan wrote back, once or twice a year too, even when Sachiko had stopped replying. Later, letters came every month since.

But when Otou-sama had gone away too without a word, the letters stopped.

Okaa-sama must have stopped missing her.

But, it did . . . it did make her happy.

* * *

Just when she thought that she would never write back to Okaa-sama, she did, with news.

Sachiko knew that Okaa-sama was happy, somewhere where her fated had taken her. The letters stopped, that's why.

But she did wrote—just because she felt the inclination to tell her, as her one and only beloved mother—that she was carrying a child. Ryu's child.

And it feared her so, she wrote in the letter. Because Sachiko knew, that she was just like her.

That Sayako is like Sachiko.

* * *

Again, it was hard to produce Sachiko.

It was hard, that Sayako almost died.

It was hard, that Sachiko almost died.

It was hard, that Sachiko and Sayako almost died.

* * *

Then, he dismissed his prodding by standing up to prepare hiself to leave. "Nevertheless, I have served my purpose well. After this, you won't be hearing from me."

He had mentioned Tooru and Sayako. He knew those that were kept only by the family. How did he knew? Touma Ryu had told him about the family? What else had he revealed to Kashiwagi Suguru?

However, was there anything else to hide?

"You have done enough against me. You will pay for this, soon enough. In time."

"When is that? Now? When you're senile and nearly dying?" He settled the cup back to the saucer again. He fixed the front buttons of his coat and arraned his necktie. He was preparing to leave, as he stood up. "By the way, Touma Sachiko proved to be better than you have ever expected. Better than you are. It must be hard to swallow that a _woman_, in her age, had achieved more. That she was like your father, right? The only person who you most admired but couldn't be."

Kyouiichi said nothing. Kashiwagi continued, enjoying his moment of victory over the Ogasawara patriarch. "Three days was enough to release her full potential. Three days. Yet, unlike her, you took almost a lifetime but you're not even close to what your father could achieve."

"How dare you!" The old man croaked.

He dismissed Kyouiichi's tantrum as he walked away. "This was a service for a friend. He knew he can't do anything by himself, so he consulted me. He wants Sachiko to deserve what was hers all along. He loved her so much, you see. Even if this would destroy him, he sacrificed enough. And we suceeded."

"No. That's not the reason you're here! You are here, because you wanted to destroy me!"

A wicked laugh echoed in the room.

"Thank you for stating the obvious! It's not only I who wanted to destroy you; it was also my mother. Your family had done nothing but leave her in misery." Kashiwagi Suguru grabbed the empty teacup and smashed the teacup on the floor as he fumed—eyes shining, nostrils flaring, veins on his neck bulging. He stomped until he reached Kyouiichi's table, and banged both his fists as he glared at the old man.

"_Your family_ kept her away from me! It's because of _you_ that she lost everything!"

* * *

Kashiwagi Suguru left Ogasawara Kyouiichi lost in his thoughts as he pondered:

_No, I left her without taking anything. I knew we separated ways in the most pleasant way. I had done nothing but to leave her in peace, without seeing her or looking for her or watching her, because that was what she wanted. She wanted happy memories to stay as they were: happy. Not to break away with bitterness._

_I would have not obeyed her insistence, but I couldn't. I want to respect her wishes._

_She was always calm, collected. _

_She could never think that of me. Because I kept my promise. I'm sure I did._

* * *

In a very meticulously prepared plan, glitches always appeared because of extraneous variables, which were supposed to be eliminated before the plan executes. Everything was nicely completed, but even the most intricate strategy was left to be judged by _chance_.

And this extraneous variable was Touma Sachiko being pregnant after years of fruitless effort.

* * *

Fifteen missed calls. Twelve unread texts. Three fourths of the battery consumed. The number that you have dialed is either unattended or out of coverage area. Please try your call later.

The number that you have dialed is either unattended or out of coverage area. Please try your call later.

The number that you have dialed—

Battery empty.

* * *

Fukuzawa Yuuki yanked his arm away and pushed her to away from him. "You don't tell me what to do! I know, for myself, that I am doing the right thing! Yumi needed me, and I am going to help her. Yumi needs to know who was behind this. She is my only sister!"

"Yuuki-san, no—"

"She is my _sister_!"

* * *

_[AFTERMATH]_

"Don't do everything by yourself, Sachiko."

A voice she knew so well was heard when she opened her eyes. The room was dim, which was good for her eyes. She tried to look at the bedside, but no one was there. She started to blink more, trying to remember how she ended up here, somewhere, and why was there an IV pinched on her skin. Then, she remembered what happened.

_No! Please please please please please please do not do this to me . . . not like this . . . . _

Just as she touched her belly with her uninjured arm, she saw with the aid of a lamp on a bedside table: it was on the wall in front of her, several steps away from the foot of her bed. There, in the dim lighting, she finally saw what she thought she could never see again.

There it was, the woman with rotting legs surrounded by yellow smoke_. _Then, a voice began to drawl from the door.

"That isn't fake, by the way."

The woman with long, straight, blond hair had said. Satou Sei was grinning.

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N:** Okay. Kashiwagi Suguru finally lost his temper. He finally lost it. I never felt so free.

"Great art is always stolen and seldom found" is from "Why Great Art Will Always Be Stolen (and Seldom Found)," a title of an article by Judith Hennessee, published in _Connoisseur_, July 1990, pp. 41-47 and 104. I haven't read this yet, but I assumed that the art theft featured here were of paintings, drawings and sculptures of the Great Masters, old and new. So, to relate that with Yumi (and this plot), getting the culprit would matter less since she's a contemporary painter (still had so many things to prove) and she didn't even count. Therefore, looking for her painting isn't as elaborate, meticulous and doesn't require a major police or government force from whereever just to get it back, unlike with the missing or stolen paintings of Monet, Picasso, and the like. Compared to them, she is still bound for criticism. This is what Yoshino wanted to say, I guess.

But still, this story being so fictional, anything that we assume could happen, even the most delusional ones. I'm babbling.

Thanks to RL, CX, CIFC and S about your commentaries and analyses. Especially those character analyses and chess, thank you, _you know who you are. _You are so right about Don Quixote. You probably are much better in synthesizing commentaries about this story than myself. And _wadys06_, for reviewing even though we are separated by our language barrier. I could never understand Spanish, but thank God for the net, I managed to read what you want to convey.

I hope I am living up to your expectations as I continue this story. I hope that the grammar and spelling glitches aren't as conspicuous and glaring. I wish I had a proper beta.

Last breadcrumb: Honorifics.

Reviews are welcome!


	25. Chapter 25

**THE PASSING WIND**

_-TheSilentReader-_

* * *

_[PROLOGUE]_

Long, straight tresses of blonde struggled against the wind as the person slid the doors open for the female incomer. She engaged a stout grin as she stepped sideways to make way. She closed the door with a dramatic _thud _as she watched she remove her shoes and arranged them in the foyer with her hands, putting them into the shoe rack. The arrived walked inside to put her handbag on a couch in the traditionally furnished apartment. The couch, however, was solely for that person who waited for her arrival.

After all, this wasn't her house; she was just playing the house dog until everything was over. Before, she was the person who usually had been the last going home—usually at late hours of the night—but this time, she was early. It was the first time that it happened tonight. It was the first time that she'd received and welcomed the owner of the apartment.

It was also the first time that she wanted to take the incomer's bag and take it to deposit in one of the couches, but she was beaten to it.

She was glad that she was here. She was happy that she accepted her in the apartment. She was happy that she allowed her to stay for a while. But she was worried for her, too. Of the reasons that she allowed her for being here.

She could see worry in her eyes, as id she was stuck in a complicated mathematical puzzle. She wore the same expression when she encountered one during high school. But being her older sister was enough for her to notice before what she was showing.

If was her first time that she asked her if she could prepare that bath for her. Or dinner. She wanted food, but she declined the bath. Without anything more to ask from her.

She made it clear that she would try to fix her the best dinner for her little sister. That little sister, however, did not say anything to evoke a declaration of assurance, but she chuckled anyway—the big sister always said those.

The weight that has been saddling her own heart, the petite souer could already point it out, and had induced her to spill it.

It was now her problem, too. She said she wanted to help, and she had allowed her to a position to interfere.

It was also the reason they were sisters, after all.

But, in small ways, she was able to make her feel better, such as doing her favor.

She asked later, as she watched her washing the dishes, "Have you warned Yoshino-san about it?"

"Yes, Onee-sama."

* * *

CHAPTER 25

* * *

"Something bothered you, Suguru-san?" Shimata-san asked as he whisked away the sedan from the car park of the monumental edifice of the Ogasawara Zaibatsu. Kashiwagi left the old man in his thoughts after he lost his temper. He hated it; he hated it because Ogasawara Kyouiichi had done less provocation that could not even equal how Kashiwagi released his feelings.

It was never a good idea to lose focus when you feel that you are winning. Because losing temper is found on the losing side.

He murmured, but he could tell that his butler could hear it. "Tell me, Shimata-san; you told me about the work that my mother had done for Ogasawara. But you never mentioned the _picture _she painted. Is it the landscape of the Ogasawara Mansion?"

"Yes." There was silence longer than was allowed. "Yes it was. Have you seen it?"

"Yes. I saw it in his office." He answered his question as he looked to his window, suddenly in a trance to everything that the vehicle had passed by. "Why didn't I notice it when I first went to him?" He asked himself.

Shimata asked when they were already in the outskirts of the city. "How did you know it was her work?"

Kashiwagi looked directly at the mirror where his eyes met the older man's. "Her seal was there, at a tiny spot on the left corner."

Then, a ring from his cellular phone alarmed him. Ryu-san was calling.

* * *

_1967_

He met her in an auction where she the primary painter who restored a fusuma painting, which Ogasawara Kyouiichi wanted to buy for his late father's shrine. There, he met a woman who had eyes as dark as onyx, but shone like a diamond. She was a tall woman, with short, boyish-cut, black hair, which was a messy even in an occasion such as this. She wasn't even wearing a proper gown or whatever evening wear. Just a comfortable black dress. When everyone in the gala was busy with each other—gallery owners, benefactors, sponsors, art collectors and sellers—she was busy inspecting the bubbles of her champaigne while she sat on a duvet. But she looked bored.

It was as if she was tired of this party and society in general, and he was curious of what the reason why she was here in the first place.

"I restored that painting, you see." She elegantly tilted her tall glass and pointed the fusuma that he bought.

"Thank you for your effort." He manage to say, a little irritated at her absence of indulgence, when he was the most important person in the room—she isn't even blinking an eye as she talked to him absently.

"That's what you all do, you just buy them." She huffed, then finished the whole drink in one shoot. "You never know its value because you have so much money to spare, it doesn't matter."

"How daring for you to say that." He accused, silently.

"Tell me, if that painting isn't the real painting, what would you do?" She asked quizzically, finally looking at Kyouiichi.

"I'll send to hell those who fabricated it and sold it to me." He said carefully, making her regret that she made a joke like that on his face. No one makes jokes like that on his face.

Then, she stood from her comfortable seating position, and walked away to the doors leading outside the function hall. She appeared to him as if she was entirely finished of her business being here. It was as if she was put off by Kyouiichi's presence. Just as she walked away entirely out of his hearing range, she said:

"But then, you would never know that," then, a knowing smirk. "Would you?"

Later, when he asked the owner of the museum of whom the person was, the person who restored the fusuma painting, they told, _no one_, she doesn't want people to know who she was.

But he did find out, and her name was Kinomoto Setsuna.

* * *

Kinomoto Setsuna didn't care that much. Kinomoto Setsuna didn't want too much from the world—she just wanted quiet.

There was little that amused her, she felt that her workroom was too small, but only that room only had the most beautiful view of the garden and the dark sky. There was also a little sentiment that conspired with her preference—it was also her mother's favorite room in the compound.

What was unwanted to this perfect, immaculate room was the man that gave him another commission—the Ogasawara Mansion.

In the room was various sizes of photographs of different parts of the front view of the house attached to the walls—an informal collage. Setsuna was in the middle of the room, unmoving except for her right hand, seemingly suffocated by the overwhelming pictures of the house in macro. But if ever she felt like shouting in frustration, she did not show it.

"Why didn't you just go to the mansion and paint there?" He asked, while he was sitting in on the hallway, watching the night sky. He went to the compound so unexpectedly and shoved the commission with humongous amount of money to pay her.

But the picture of the house was easy to paint, she told herself. But Ogasawara Kyouiichi was sipping tea and siphoning his cigar, acting as if he owned this compound. But, it would never hurt, if he were to stay here and act all highly in her household. After all, the money that he'd been giving her is enough to save the compound. The money that she'd get from the commission was enough to sustain herself.

By some length of indiscerned time, the smell of cigar was already imprinted in the workroom.

"Ogasawara-san, why are you _here_? Don't you have a family to take care of?" Setsuna asked suddenly, all the while curious about the behavior of the businessman who had been visiting for the commission more frequently than before.

"The members of the Ogasawara family are in Tokyo. I cannot be with them if I am here." He said, nonchalantly.

"Why check the commission in the evening? Can't you just visit in . . . office hours, like most people do?"

"I am not like most people."

"Yeah, you aren't. You're ruder than most people." She dropped.

"I want to see your progress. You people are less driven than most people, artists that you are." Ogasawara-san said stiffly, as he waited for his tea to come. He was once more sitting like a peacock on the floor of the corridor, just in front of the workroom's door.

But the insult just flew out of the window as Setsuna dismissed it with ease. "Yeah, but you can't help but need _people _like us to accentuate your vanities. Thus, this commission."

Then, a young man appeared at the end of the hall, a wooden tea tray on his hands.

"Thanks, Ichirou."

"Is there anything else, Setsuna?" Ichirou asked, not minding the visitor. Ogasawara was slightly annoyed at the servant's lack of hospitality.

"Nah, there isn't. You can go now though. Or you want to join us?" Setsuna asked, a bit playful this time, seemingly annoying the young man.

And she was successful about it. Ichirou said while rolling his eyes, "I'll pass."

Ogasawara was already halfway finished with his tea when he asked what has been on his mind all along, "Is . . . Ichirou-san your servant in this house?"

"No. Have you noticed the lack of honorifics?" She stared at him as if he were retarded. It would usually anger him for her being so disrespectful and rude, but with some reason, he was rather amused by it. "He's family. He helps me a lot with maintaining this house."

"He is a Kinomoto, then?"

"To my bad luck, he's not. He's Shimata Ichirou."

But Shimata Ichirou wasn't just any other _family,_ he was the person closest to Setsuna. He was always thought to be her husband, or her live-in boyfriend, but Setsuna just let the rumors fly, burn and then drift away like embers in burning firewood. There was little to tell; there was no one to impress; there was no one worthy enough whose opinion would matter to Setsuna. Not anymore. After all, everything that she had done, was doing, and would do were for the sake of reviving what was lost to the Kinomoto.

Yet, in line with her mission was Ichirou. He was the one who had accepted her; he was the one who joined her with her vision; he is the only family member she had and mattered. He said, when Ogasawara Kyouiichi had been too frequent with his visits, "He's not here just to check that commission he gave you. He could just reject or accept the commission, without looking at the process. He has other motives going here."

He said it with pure distrust. And she did not like one bit of that audacity. Because he was recurrently correct with his assumptions.

She said absently, while she reached for a spot at the highest left corner of the canvass. "Do you think I don't know that?"

He gripped on the lying plane of the stood where Setsuna was standing, just to secure her base. "He's here, not for that painting. He's here because he's interested with you." He replied.

"Are you jealous?"

The high stool squeaked.

"No. I am concerned." He held one of Setsuna's ankles so that she won't panic. "I don't want you to be hurt again. You're my only family, Setsuna, and I worry about you."

She put her hands down, her brush and palette hanging."If you're concerned if he's trying to seduce me, I hate to break it to you, but he was trying." Then, Ichirou moved away from the stool for Setsuna to jump from it. She looked at him with deathly seriousness mixed with unamused scowl. "But you don't have to worry, Ichirou. I won't fall in love with the likes of him."

She walked to the table where all her paints, brushes, and palettes were situated. She placed her palette and the rest of her brushes from the pocket of her apron to their designated cans. Then, she removed a tiny hairband that secured the tips of her black, short hair, releasing the shoulder-length cropped hair.

"I only keep on tolerating him because I want this _house_ to endure. I want the only remainder of the Kinomoto family to stay with us."

* * *

If there were circumstances that would make you do things against your pride and principles, what were they?

This question was reserved for everyone who was struggling to keep on living. Inasmuch as Kinomoto Setsuna was concerned, keeping the house was the only reason for her to break the rules. Family, which was already torn by wretched circumstances during the course of her life, was the only thing that mattered to her—a concept that she wanted to happen once more in her life and live with for the rest of it. It was something that was taken away from her at an early age; but now, her only objective in life is to restore the only proof of the Kinomoto existence: the house and everything in it.

Ichirou and Setsuna were left with a heavy burden. They were taken away from the family long ago, they came back only to find out that the family was long ruined, that the compound was no longer as lively, pristine, and vibrant as it was before. It was an evidence of an end of a line, an end of a magnificent era. It became a manifestation of deprivation. It was as if the artists produced within the long line of Kinomoto did not even exist. When they came back, they were left with a mission so impossible, but all they could see was the future. They could see the compound as a haven of immortal artists—those that were carved into history with the seal of Kinomoto on their works. Artists immortalized because of their talent and acquired skill.

The Kinomoto compound would be like a shrine for her family. Even if the line would end with her, the compound would endure. History would take note of her efforts.

And Ogasawara Kyouiichi was her way of getting things through.

* * *

He never knew when it started—his fanatic fascination for her—but he was sure that it was getting out of hand when he had tried to kiss her as she served him tea for the first time in many weeks that he repeatedly visit her to check on the commission that he gave her. Afterall, the painting isn't as small as the fusuma painting that she restored for him months ago—it was like a wall, eight by six meters in area.

And details of the Ogasawara mansion mattered to him. And she painted them with ease.

Kinomoto Setsuna seemed not fazed by his abrupt exposure of sentiment—or desire—whatever it was when he noticed that she failed to respond. It was either she was just as surprised as he, or she didn't feel anything at all, just like when she was staring at her champagne that night when he first saw her.

She didn't feel anything at all. She didn't turn him away, she didn't push herself even in the slightest bit to his arms. She just stood there, a perfect imitation of a horrible sculpture. He felt no soul in her.

No woman rejected him coldly before as Kinomoto Setsuna had done.

* * *

_Present_

Yuuki was in the Kinomoto compound mid-afternoon, and found Yumi at the center of a very large room, covered by the thick blankets of the futon. She was lying flat, but she was very much awake. Yuuki looked at Yoshino, who was behind him as he stormed the house even though the old woman had insisted on leaving Yumi alone. But when they found Yumi lying on Kashiwagi's bed, no one could come inside and talk to her.

"Come in, Yuuki."

"Nee-san." He called her, sentimental and laced with guilt.

Yumi smiled pleasantly, like how she had it when she was still in Lillian Academy for Girls. for the first time. "It's been a long time ever since you called me that."

"I'm sorry." But Yuuki gathered his resolve to reprimand his sister. "You haven't answering your phone."

Fortunately, Yumi wasn't irritable today. "Eh? Ah, I don't have it with me."

(Or, was she not really?)

She lifted herself, and her hand gestured Yuuki to come closer. She said, "Look at those canvases over there." She pointed out the six fake paintings and watched Yuuki looked at them. Yuuki wasn't even surprised as he lifted one—the painting that she spilled tea on. She looked at his face quizzically, each expression she catalogued into what she did not expect.

"You don't look surprised, Yuuki." She stated what she observed.

"Do I?"

"It's _The Passing Wind_, isn't it? I found it." She told him almost proudly. There wasn't any indication of mockery as he inspected her face—well, he _was_ expecting cruel sarcasm from her: Didn't he fail to find the missing painting, and instead, the one who virtually _asked _him to find it found it herself?

"Why . . ." But nothing she said made any sense. Why was he in Kashiwagi-sempai's room? Why was she like this? Did something happen between Yumi and Kashiwagi-sempai? Did they—?! ". . . is it covered with tea stains? Yumi, what is going on?"

Then, her face changed and loomed a serious aura. "Take a look, brother. _Take a look_. You wouldn't know, would you?"

"Onee-san," He hesitated. He glanced from the painting, then to her. Yumi then made an encouraging, impatient nod. "Why did you do this to your work?"

His answer made her sigh.

"Because I found out that _that—_" she pointed a straight finger at the painting that Yuuki had been holding, "—is not my heart."

Once she mentioned "heart", he abruptly looked once more at the painting—the edges, the canvas-covered back, the brush strokes, Yumi's seal. He concentrated all his senses to the painting before him. After what seemed to be hours than minutes, he exclamed: "This isn't—"

When he looked back at his sister, the calm face was gone. "That one almost fooled me too." Then, to his horror, she _giggled._ "I know that you'll notice my work among all fakes, because _you_ are my _brother_, _you_ know _me _, but it fooled you too, right?"

She continued giggling. "Thank God I'm not the only pathetic in this room."

"This isn't a joke, Nee-san." Yuuki warned, entirely confused of his sister's behavior. It is always better to see her cynical than mad.

"No, Yuuki. You think pouring tea on a perfect replica of my work's a _joke_?" She asked. "For a detective, you don't look like you've found a lead. These are fakes, as you deduced already, if you were really surprised that there were _actually_ fakes. Tell me, how long have you known? How long have you been hiding it from me? Because I knew from the way you looked at them that these are fakes. It's like you've seen one before, but something happened to it."

All the while Yuuki stared at his sister's eyes, trying to appear so cold and impenetrable. Sudden fear rushed from his fingers to his chest, thus he felt it constrict too tightly against his will. He was suddenly afraid of her sister's blank, hypnotic, brown eyes. All the while he postulated any reason for coming here, and those were thrown away as Yumi read—one by one—his secrets from his eyes.

"Am I correct? Kashiwagi-san told me last night that one replica was missing." She asked, "Tell me, dear, most loyal _brother_, how did they use it?"

It took him a long time answering her, realizing for himself that she needed her sister to realize that this whole _travesty_, months and months off curdling it into their lives, was beginning to make _sense_ when he admitted, "They burned it."

"Who burned it?"

"Kashiwagi Suguru and Touma Ryu."

"When did it happen?"

"Three days ago; the day you went back to Musashino."

"Where?"

"At the Ogasawara Mansion."

It was dawning to her what Touma Ryu wanted to tell Sachiko. It was the same as what she would have wanted to do when Sachiko revealed that portrait of hers at the party months ago. She knew that this was personal.

If there were circumstances that would make you do things against your pride and principles, what were they?

She knew why Touma Ryu had done it. He must have done it in front of her, not just to spite her, but to prove that his string had been pulled, strained, plucked, and broken. That he was a person who loved deeply—he accepted all of _her_, but it won't matter if there was _someone else._ That he shared her with someone else, that he couldn't have her fully. Man or woman, it takes full understanding to separate love and obsessive impulse for possession, and all the hues of gray between them. Yumi wanted Sachiko too before, as Ryu wanted Sachiko now. She did want possess _all _of her before. She went almost insane when she lost Sachiko in her life, and had a hard time putting herself together without Sachiko by her side.

No, on second thought, she couldn't even possess Sachiko. Not when Ogasawara Kyouiichi was around. She understood how hard it was to _share._

When one thought that the most important person for him would eventually be leaving his life, he'd do two things: he'd get that person back, no matter what it took; or, he'd do anything to spite the other, to destroy the other, to keep the other away from him, just to grip on his pride and to keep _hurt_ at bay.

Ryu . . . Yumi understood him.

Somehow, in some ways, in some twisted circumstance, they were the same, Yumi and Ryu.

She looked away from the painting and lifted herself away from the comforting futon. She noticed that she was still on yesterday's clothes as she arranged Kashiwagi's bed.

"Where is Sachiko?" She asked as she finished smoothing the planes of the pillow above the folded futon.

It was a full minute until Yumi stared to extract the answer from the defeated brother. Then, he braved himself for Yumi's reaction when he said, "In the hospital."

* * *

"No." Sachiko tried to shout, but in truth, her pleas were just mere whispers in the background of the humming air conditioning system and horrid silence. In fear of losing everyone and everything in her, she exclamed with difficulty. "NO!"

She was still weak, and on the brink of unconsciousness. Why was Sei here? Why? Why did it hurt her so when she saw Sei by the door?

"Shh." Sei rushed to her side, smoothing her hair away from her face, and pushing her gently to the bed. But for Sachiko, everything she saw was hazy, and the lack of proper lighting did not help to clear her mind. "Hush now. Don't move too much," Sei whispered.

All she could think about was her child. "Is my . . . is she safe?"

"You are in good hands, Sachiko-chan. Touma Ryu made sure of it." Sei whispered.

"My child . . . my child . . . Oh, Ryu . . . ?"

"Shh. Sleep now. _Sleep_. _Be at ease_."

* * *

"Ryu . . . Ryu . . ."

She woke again, but this time, she saw her husband by his side. But when Ryu was summoned gently, weakly, all he could say to her was:

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry . . ."

She felt his warm hands as she drifted off.

* * *

"Shhh."

"Okaa-san," She saw the face that she was seeing only in dreams ever since she left. "Okaa-san, you're here."

"Yes, I am. Your father and I came all the way for you." She's here, she's here, she's here . . . .

"I'm sorry—"

"Do not say sorry, Sachiko, please, no."

"Okaa-san . . ."

"Sleep." Ogasawara Sayako showed the same hypnotic smile that Sachiko had. She understood, she felt that as her mother tightened the grip of her hand that they were the same, in this aspect. They were both weak, in this aspect.

As she drifted to slumber, she recalled that her mother telling her how to see but not look, how to listen but not hear, and how to mourn without crying. But, all she said today was _sleep._ Okaa-san haven't said that to her for a very, very, very long time.

Sachiko felt she was that little girl once more.

* * *

When she woke up again, she wasn't alone.

Then, she remembered the first time she _woke_—that painting was in front of her.

She wasn't even sure why she had forgotten the painting when one time she just opened her eyes and saw her Onee-sama on a sofa with two of her fellow former Roses. When she saw Satou Sei, she remembered the painting that was supposed to be at that wall where she could see it fully was gone. It was as if it was because of her hallucinations when she was still weak, but she knew . . . she knew to herself that _it _was _The Passing Wind_. It would be too much of a coincidence if it were not for Sei's appearance that night.

When Youko had been satisfied of Sachiko's answers to her queries, she asked for Satou Sei's audience alone, and the senior obliged. They were now alone in her bedroom in one of the Ogasawara Zaubatsu's hospitals.

Sei looked at her steadily.

"I know that it's been hanging _there_, Yumi's painting." Sachiko started.

"Oh?"

Sachiko hoarsely whispered. "Do not play jokes with me!"

"I won't. And I don't plan to mess with pregnant women. You know _how_ you are with your fluctuating hormones."

"Please." She whispered.

"Look beside you." For the first time, she saw a rectungular crate covered with manila paper.

Sachiko asked, "Did you send it?"

Sei gave her an incredulous expression, seemingly not believing _why _Sachiko had been asking such questions. She replied, "You think _I _sent it?"

"Sei-sama—"

Sei sniggered. "If I were . . . well, me, _I_ would go straight to Yumi and give what she wanted. The person who actually could _return_ that painting back to her does matter, doesn't it? It would be soooo momentous for her. She'd probably _finally_ agree to grant sexual favors to me, if that did happen. After so many years of ineffective persuasion. Sooo, do you think _I _would bother to hand it to you, just so you could have _all _the credit?"

"No. No, you won't." Sachiko reluctantly agreed.

"You probably don't know, but here goes anyway: your husband took great measures to acquire that painting. It took a lot of effort to stop himself from burning it all the way. It took him his sanity to watch you suffer as you watch a fake replica of that burned into ashes. Haven't I told you before? That isn't fake."

She remembered Ryu and Kashiwagi-san—"Why . . . how did you know about . . . ?"

"Anyway, I won't speak for his defence; this was his plan anyway, but nobody knows that. He just wanted to give that thing to you." She sat on the lone chair nearest to Sachiko. But she knew Sachiko wouldn't even dare to touch her. "He knew how much you wanted that, right? He knew that you wanted to find that to reconcile with Yumi. He took great lengths to fulfil what you wanted all your life. Goodness, everyone is looking for it, thought it was stolen."

Sei, for the first time, looked at Sachiko without remorse, without her hatred. She looked like the Sei that she was so many years ago. The untainted Sei. It appeared that she was almost consoling her.

"But here it is, found by the first person who wanted it burned."

Touma Ryu wanted it burned.

"Why are you speaking for him? Why . . . ?" Sachiko asked, after an eternity of heavy quiet. "Where's Ryu? I have to thank him and tell him properly about . . ."

They were both looking at the blanket-covered belly that Sachiko had been smoothing ever since they stopped bickering.

Sei said softly, "Didn't you know? Even this decision of giving you that painting was hard for him. He thought that once you have it, you'd be leaving."

"What . . . ? Why would he think that?"

She stood up, and touched her head lightly, without ruffling her hair. Just like any loving sempai, just like Youko-sama's hand, hers was warm, loving, securing. They were not supposed to have this moment to tenderness and weakness, but Sei was giving this. They were supposed to be enemies for Yumi's favor.

Sei said, "You two are so similar—both of you are pussies. It's almost painful for me to bear too much cowardice and _stupid_ in this room."

Then, she walked away.

* * *

_[AFTERMATH]_

/ Yo, Pawn-san. /

"Yes?"

/ Took you a long time to answer my calls. You drugged me, you fucking shit, and you have the guts not to answer my calls _promptly_? That's _insubordination,_ Pawn-san. /

"You are awfully rude for a person who wants favors. I am your employer."

/ No, Suguru-chan. You, _owe,_ me. So listen, can you tell me who actually stole it? /

"I . . . I can't be the one to tell you."

/ Eh? What's the use of me being your . . . _king_ if I couldn't even order you around? /

"That's—"

/Take me to Touma Ryu. Tell me where he is. /

"Yumi—"

/_Tell me where he is._ /

Beep!—Beep!—Beep!—Beep!

"How awful of you to hang up on me, Suguru."

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_

* * *

**A/N: **Did you know that the file containing this chapter was almost _corrupted_? It's like losing a yellow, as people here in PH usually say. But… Is it just me, or the DocMan seemed to be faulty nowadays? I checked my documents and some of the spellings were changed when I checked the chapter after the day I published it. Argh. If it was me (but I think it was really me), then, I apologize for the glaring spelling and grammatical errors. I'll find time to fix them later.

Again, with Sachiko: am I doing the right thing for her?

Ah, the [PROLOGUE] here was actually ripped off from the [AFTERMATH] in Chapter 19. Those who guessed right who those two soeurs were before this chapter happened, I would gladly receive rotten tomatoes. XD


End file.
